Tattoo's Kids
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Tattoo's three children seek help from Roarke and Leslie. Follows 'Jane Doe & The Overlooked Sister'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _This year it'll be fifteen years since the death of Hervé Villechaize, and now and then I like to recall his character of Tattoo—probably his best-known role—in a story. I expect to do something similar around the actual anniversary of his death in September. Meanwhile, I hope you'll enjoy this tale, which since I'm working on two writing projects simultaneously may be a while in the completion. Thanks as ever to the usual gang, and to all other readers!_

* * *

§ § § -- December 18, 2004

The second party of guests on this final weekend before Christmas made Roarke smile with a mixture of reminiscence and gentle sadness. "So they've done it," he said as if to himself, watching three dark-haired teenagers filing down the ramp from the plane's hatch. "We will undoubtedly have a very intriguing week. You are looking at Patrick Latignon and his younger sisters, Antoinette and Mireille."

Leslie gasped. "Tattoo's kids!?"

"The very same, yes," Roarke said, still smiling.

"Where's Solange?" Leslie asked, seeing that the Latignon children were alone.

"Ah…there's a story for us," Roarke told her. "We'll have more details in another hour or so, but to summarize, they tell me their mother is planning to remarry: and they are very much afraid that she is doing her utmost to forget their father. As they put it, they are 'running away' to protest Solange's actions. I let them come here because Patrick and Antoinette have both completed school, and it's Christmas vacation for young Mireille."

"I see," Leslie said. "If you want the truth, I can see exactly where the kids are coming from. I thought Tattoo was the only one Solange could ever love—they were always so happy together. When I visited them back in 1993, I could see how they doted on each other. Why in the world would she want to marry again?"

"Don't forget, my dear Leslie, you believed you could never marry again when Teppo died," Roarke reminded her, "and now here you are, even happier with Christian than you were with Teppo. Solange will have her side of the story as well, but we will hear out her children first, give them a chance to air their grievances." And with that, he raised his glass in the weekly toast, while Tattoo's children gazed around them with wide-eyed wonder, no doubt taking in everything their father had once been so familiar with.

‡ ‡ ‡

By ten o'clock the Latignon youngsters were in Roarke's study, soaking in the room and its décor, as if trying to imagine their father here. Roarke was alone in the study, and watched them with amusement and a bit of avuncular affection as they gazed around in speechless surprise. Then a baby cried upstairs, and all three drew up straight at once. "Is that one of _cousine's_ babies?" asked Antoinette excitedly.

"Indeed it is," Roarke said. "Come in and please sit down, there's no need for you to stand as you are. Leslie will be down in another moment."

Just as he spoke, a door closed upstairs and after a few more seconds Leslie trotted down. "Oh, good, you're here!" she said cheerfully.

"_Cousine!"_ cried Antoinette happily, and she jumped from the chair she'd just taken and hugged Leslie, who laughed and returned it. Patrick came right behind his sister; Mireille was a little shy, but willing enough to bestow a hug as well.

"It's been a very long time since you visited us, _cousine,"_ Patrick remarked while Roarke came around from his desk and they all sat around the tea table near the staircase. "I was only nine then, but I remember it pretty well."

"I do too," Antoinette said cheerfully. "And I remember how Papa took you into the city to his art gallery, and all we wanted was to go as well. Especially Mireille."

Mireille smiled shyly and admitted, "I can't remember. I was so little then."

"I wouldn't expect you to," said Leslie. "You weren't even two years old yet. So how are you now, you three? What are you up to?"

Patrick grinned and said, "I run Papa's art gallery now. I took over from the main assistant he had there when you were visiting. Papa's paintings still sell!"

"They should," said Leslie. "He was a very talented artist. We'll have to show you the museum we established in your father's memory. How old are you now?"

"I'm twenty," Patrick explained, "and Antoinette is eighteen. Mireille is nearly thirteen now, and we had to wait till she was out of school for the holidays before we could come here without alerting_Maman_ that we were leaving." He frowned slightly, exchanging glances with his two sisters.

"I told the dance company I was going on personal leave," Antoinette said, looking slightly guilty. "I followed in _Maman's_ footsteps a bit, but I'm a ballerina, not a modern dancer as she was. They understood…I think."

"You think?" Leslie echoed dubiously.

Antoinette sighed heavily. "We all think it was for an excellent reason. _Maman_ is planning her wedding, and it's all she thinks of now. We come and go and I think she hardly notices. Patrick has a little attic loft in the city and I spend more time there than at home, because home is so gloomy."

"It's dismal," Mireille pronounced. "When I finish school each day I try to go to Patrick's flat rather than home. We still live in the house that you visited, _cousine_, but you'd never recognize it now. _Maman_ turned Papa's glass art studio into a greenhouse…for vegetables, ugh! And she's taken all of Papa's paintings off the walls and plans to store them away! She doesn't want to remember Papa anymore!" Her eyes shone with tears.

Leslie blinked, amazed. "Seriously?"

"It's true," said Antoinette solemnly. "Actually, _Maman__said_ she's going to store the paintings, but I frankly think she really plans to sell them. If she doesn't want them around, they should at least stay in the family."

"I handled that," Patrick put in, clearing his throat.

"You did?" blurted his sisters and Leslie all at once, and Roarke chuckled silently.

"How?" Antoinette pressed him.

Patrick shot Roarke a sidelong look and then smiled reluctantly. "Remember when _Maman_ was away on that weekend with Georges?" he asked. His sisters nodded and he shifted in his seat to include Roarke and Leslie in his explanation. "_Maman_ asked me to stay with Antoinette and Mireille while she visited Marseilles on a holiday weekend with her fiancé, Georges. She had already taken down all of Papa's paintings and stored them in the room where you slept on your visit, Leslie. She had told all of us that there would be no room in Georges' house when she and the girls move in after their marriage, and that she planned to have the paintings stored away. But then Antoinette voiced her suspicion that she really wants to sell them, and I thought it was better safe than sorry. I wrapped them up, brought them back into the city with me and kept them at the gallery. Then on the Monday immediately following, my employees helped me to package them properly, and we shipped them here to Fantasy Island. They'll be safe here."

"They haven't arrived yet," Leslie told him.

Roarke frowned thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I received word yesterday afternoon that a number of large fragile parcels had arrived at the docks on the other side of the island. It's quite likely that those may be Tattoo's paintings. Perhaps, Leslie, when you take the youngsters around the island, you can make a trip there and pick them up." He regarded the Latignons. "I do feel that you three should inform your mother as to the whereabouts of the paintings, particularly if you hope to ensure that they remain here."

"We'll tell her, in due time," Patrick said a little coolly. "But you have to understand, Mr. Roarke, we're not in a frame of mind to talk much to her just now."

"What exactly do you have against your mother's fiancé?" Roarke inquired.

"I suppose it's two problems, really," Antoinette said slowly. "Perhaps it would be one thing if _Maman_ weren't treating Papa's things, and his memory, as so much waste. She doesn't want his paintings around, she's made his studio into a greenhouse as Mireille said, and she's put our villa up for sale as well."

Leslie gasped. "Did she really!"

The Latignons nodded soberly. "And it's not just the way she's trying to shut out the memory of Papa," Patrick said, "but it's the man she wants to marry. His name is Georges LeNoir, and he's…well…"

"Evil," Mireille filled in with dire conviction.

"How is he…'evil'?" Roarke asked, putting the word in imaginary quotation marks. "What has he done that has brought you to feel this way?"

Patrick and Antoinette looked helplessly at each other. "It's a feeling, I suppose," said Antoinette reluctantly. "He's very oily. He smiles at us and pats us on the head like puppies when _Maman's_ around. He's the one who talked her into putting away Papa's paintings and selling our house."

"He suggested that she should start her life fresh and new," Patrick added sourly.

"And if Georges thinks _Maman_ should get rid of Papa's paintings and our house," Mireille said, tears filling her eyes, "then the next thing she'll want to get rid of could be us!"

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other. "Have you seen him doing anything suspicious at all?" Leslie asked hesitantly. "What I mean is, does Solange seem to be acting other than normal? Do you know much about the guy? Does it seem as if she's concentrating on him a lot more than she should be?"

"Yes, to that last," Antoinette said. "Georges is her whole world. He seems so sweet and loving to her, but to us it looks…wrong."

"Exaggerated," Patrick put in. "He sounds like a bad romance novel."

Leslie stifled a smile at that. "Does Georges have access to her bank accounts at all?"

"I hope not," Patrick said. "It's a classic thing, you know: Papa left us a lot of money when he died. You'll remember that, Leslie—he painted during every spare moment he had, trying to create enough stock to sell so that he could put money away for us to live on after he was gone, and so we could keep our home. He put money into a family account for all of us, one that _Maman_ drew on for our living expenses; and he also created small trust funds for each of us children. We are to gain sole control of our respective funds as each of us reaches our twenty-first birthdays. I still have nine months before mine comes; and obviously the girls' accounts are even more vulnerable, particularly Mireille's. You see, _Maman_ has control of our trust funds at the moment. We could be in a great deal of trouble if she decides to allow Georges access as well."

"So she hasn't done so yet, then?" Roarke prompted.

Antoinette frowned and looked at Patrick, who shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know for certain," he admitted. "But I do think there's that danger."

"How does this guy treat you when Solange isn't around to see?" Leslie asked.

"He's cruel," Mireille said instantly. "Patrick can fight back because he doesn't live at home anymore, and he's a man now and doesn't have to be afraid of Georges. But he always looks at Antoinette with big eyes, and he thinks I'm a pest. He hits me sometimes."

Antoinette shuddered visibly and reluctantly disclosed, "I think he's a pedophile, of sorts. It's as Mireille said—he stares at me a lot, and it feels as if he's trying to imagine me without my clothes on." She looked up. "I'm afraid he might rape me someday."

"We can't report him, either," Patrick added. "He hasn't actually done anything yet, there's only the threat and our suspicions. But we truly believe _Maman's_ in danger, and the three of us as well, and everything we own. Only_Maman_ doesn't seem to see it."

Roarke nodded, silent a moment, taking in each of his late former assistant's children before speaking. "I've received word from Solange," he said quietly. "Your absence was noticed within hours after your departure, and she tracked your movements enough to learn that this was your destination. She told me that she and Monsieur LeNoir can't get away immediately, but she requested passes so that she could arrive on the last charter of the day before Christmas Eve. So they will be here."

Patrick scowled; Antoinette gasped, and Mireille looked frantically at her brother and then at Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, you actually gave them passes?" Patrick demanded.

Roarke lifted a hand. "Please, Patrick, hear me out. I am not unsympathetic to your tale, believe me. But it is my policy to try whenever possible to get both sides of a story, and your mother does have the right to tell hers." He smiled slightly. "Furthermore, I will have the opportunity to observe Monsieur LeNoir while he and your mother are here, and learn for myself what sort of man he is and what intentions he has. If he is foolish enough to try anything, I will know."

Patrick grinned at that. "Well, now that you mention that, I can remember when I was a little boy and the stories Papa would tell me and Antoinette about this island, and you and your powers, and _cousine_, and so on. We should have known to trust you."

"That's why we came here in the first place," Antoinette said. "We knew you were Papa's very best friend, and that you helped him a lot before he met _Maman_ and they had us. And we remembered Leslie from her visit. So we knew this would be a safe place for us to come." She put an arm around her younger sister. "Don't worry, Mireille, _Maman_ and that horrible Georges won't be here for five days. We're safe till then and nothing can happen to us—and _cousine_ will be showing us all the places Papa knew."

"Where will we stay?" Mireille asked, biting her lip.

"I've set aside a special bungalow for you," Roarke said with a smile. "It's the one that Tattoo himself lived in when he worked for me. Leslie owns a number of your father's artworks, and she saw to it that two of them were hung in that bungalow. Perhaps it will help you three to feel a little closer to your father."

Patrick and Antoinette smiled at that, and Mireille broke away from her sister to go over and kiss Roarke's cheek. "If Leslie is our_cousine_, and you are her father, then you must be our uncle," she said. "And I'm happy that you are."

"Your father was a very dear friend of mine," Roarke told her gently, "and his children are always welcome on my island. If you ever need anything, please tell me so."

"Right now," Leslie said, "how about you three come with me. You can get settled in the bungalow, take a little rest if you want to and freshen up. We've got everything ready for you, and your suitcases are already there. I'll come and get you about quarter till noon and you can have lunch here at the main house with us, and meet Christian then."

"To meet a real live prince!" Antoinette said with a little sigh. "It would be a dream come true! You must be very happy with him,_cousine."_

"You couldn't imagine," Leslie told her and grinned at her dreamy mien. "Well, come on, let's go. You have plenty of time before lunch."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- December 18, 2004

Christian was already on the veranda with Roarke when Leslie returned with the Latignon children, and he looked up from the stroller where the triplets sat, all energetically gnawing on teething rings. "Oh, there you are, my Rose," he said. "We have extra guests?"

"Very special ones, my love," Leslie said, catching up to him and kissing him. "These are Tattoo's children—Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille. And guys, this is my beloved husband, Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö—though here, he's plain Christian Enstad."

Her last phrase went apparently unnoticed, though, for Antoinette and Mireille gave Christian deep curtsies, and even Patrick deferred to him with a bow of the head. "I've never met a real prince before," Antoinette said a little breathlessly. "It's an honor, Your Highness!"

Christian chuckled, tossing Roarke a self-conscious glance. "I'm pleased to meet the three of you as well," he observed, "but I do ask you a favor. Please, don't be so formal. You can just as easily refer to me as 'Mr. Enstad' as 'Your Highness', and believe me, I get enough of the latter in my native country."

"Come and sit down," Roarke invited, and Christian and Leslie took their usual chairs while the Latignon children ensconced themselves at the three extra place settings created for them at the enlarged table. Leslie got up almost immediately and moved the triplets' stroller to the front part of the porch rather than the edge of the side section where they would have gotten in Mariki's way, and positioned the stroller so that the babies could see her and their father. Mariki came out with her cart as Leslie was resuming her seat, and Roarke introduced Tattoo's children to her as well. She beamed, told a couple of anecdotes about Tattoo while she was putting serving dishes on the table, and took her cart back to the kitchen with the Latignons' laughter floating along after her.

"Did you ever meet Papa, Your Highness?" Mireille asked, and then quickly corrected herself. "I mean, Mr. Enstad?"

Christian smiled. "No, I'm afraid I never had that privilege," he admitted. "I've heard a bit about him from Leslie and Mr. Roarke, and in fact Leslie recently brought home some of his paintings she had that were stored here at the main house. What I know about him is of him as an artist." He chuckled suddenly. "I think there's a chance that at least one of his originals hangs in the castle. Arnulf had a brief brainstorm, if you can call it that, about investing in art and perhaps adding something to the royal treasury. In the spring of 1993 he and Kristina took themselves off to Paris and returned with four or five paintings which they proceeded to show off to the family. Only one of them really appealed to me; it was of a very French-looking country cottage nestled in a grove of trees in the full bloom of their autumn colors." He noticed the Latignons' excited recognition and grinned. "I asked who the artist was, and Kristina looked quite puzzled by the question. But Arnulf said the man who painted the scene went by the name of Tattoo; he remembered it only because it was so unusual, and further announced that it was Kristina who had insisted on purchasing the painting. I said I thought she had very good taste, and Arnulf inferred from that remark that I must want it. So he offered to sell it to me and named a price so outrageous it should have been illegal." Everyone laughed. "Needless to say, it was far beyond my resources, and I told him that if he meant to make a serious business out of reselling his art collection, he'd better research the actual going prices of these items. I think that took the wind from his sails, and I don't remember ever seeing the paintings again after that. I'll have to ask Briella whatever happened to them."

"Maybe she'll give you Tattoo's painting," Leslie suggested with a grin, and again they all laughed.

"King Arnulf was lucky," Patrick noted. "The painting you described was one of his very popular autumn-scene series. They always sold the moment he finished them, it seems. Papa knew by 1992 that he was dying, and a couple of those autumn paintings had earlier sold for extravagant prices; so he thought it best if he started to stockpile money for us to live on after he was gone. Nearly all he painted from then on was autumn scenes, and even though he produced at least two hundred of them over the next three years, every single one of them sold instantly and for a tremendous price."

Antoinette nodded. "They were usually of a cottage in a grove of trees, but even though he painted so many, they were all unique somehow. The cottages would be different architectural styles or different sizes, or there would be a flower garden somewhere in the picture, or there'd be a deer in the trees or a rabbit in the yard, or perhaps someone looking out a window, or a cat or dog on the doorstep…no two were ever exactly alike."

"I see," said Christian thoughtfully. "All the paintings Leslie had stored away here were your father's work, and one of them happened to be an autumn scene. We've hung it in the living room at our house."

"It must have been the second one he ever painted," said Patrick. "The first two he did, he set aside especially for Mr. Roarke and _cousine."_

"I didn't know you had one, Father," said Leslie in surprise. "Where is it?"

"It hangs in my own room," Roarke told her with a smile. "The structure of the walls and ceiling is such that it allowed space for only one painting, and there was no question but that it be one of Tattoo's. Yet it was difficult for me to make a choice; so when he sent us those paintings as his Christmas gifts to us in 1992, I was delighted. I was so taken with the scene that I knew it must be the one on my wall."

"The first two autumn scenes he ever painted?" Mireille asked, eyes wide. "They'll be worth thousands if you ever sell them!"

"I'd never sell mine," Leslie declared a little fiercely. "Sell one of my honorary uncle's paintings? No way!"

Mireille got up and came to Leslie's chair to hug her. "I'm glad you're our cousin," she said. "You care about Papa and his memory…far more than _Maman_ does now."

Leslie slipped an arm around the girl and squeezed her. "Don't worry, Mireille," she said. "We'll find a way to help you, okay? You have several days before we have to start thinking about it, so just put it out of your mind till then."

"What's wrong?" Christian asked, having watched this exchange.

Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille took turns explaining about their mother's impending remarriage and the unsavory preparations she had been making for it. Christian listened intently, frowning, and when they concluded their spiel he shook his head. "This LeNoir sounds quite suspicious to me," he murmured. He looked at Patrick and asked, "Before this man came into your mother's life, did she have…forgive me, but I can't think of any better way to put it—the 'proper regard' for your father's memory? I suppose I'm asking whether she still recalled him with fondness, or if she had slowly grown indifferent over the years."

"I understand your meaning, Your Highness," Patrick assured him. "No, she always remembered Papa with love. Until Georges came along, she insisted that the right amount of respect be shown to Papa's memory and the things he left behind. Then she met Georges, and within weeks she had decided that Papa's paintings were cluttering up our home and that we had better shred or archive all his papers."

"Actually, archiving your father's papers would be a very wise thing to do," Christian noted. "If I were you, I'd encourage that—but by no means allow either LeNoir or even your mother to handle that. How old are you?"

"I'm twenty," Patrick replied.

"Good," Christian said. "You're of age, and as you say you run Tattoo's art gallery in Paris, you sound like a responsible and stable young man. I expect Tattoo would have great pride in you. Find a reputable service, turn your father's papers over to them, and keep a hand in the process. Don't let them do anything that doesn't sit well with you."

Patrick nodded, looking impressed. "I never thought of that. Thank you, Your Highness. _Mon Dieu_, I wish only that we could have known you before _Maman_ met Georges."

Christian chuckled. "I speak from some experience, I'm afraid. Every time a ruling monarch dies, all his paperwork must be collected and turned over to the national archives, and it's a daunting process. I had to help with it when my father died and then again when my older brother passed on. That's a great deal of what occupies the period between the death of one monarch and the coronation of the next." He thought for a moment before looking up again. "Now, what happened to Tattoo's paintings that were in your home? You mentioned you believe your mother wants to sell them."

"I shipped them here," Patrick said.

"They should be at the docks," Leslie put in. "Father said they notified him that a lot of fragile packages arrived yesterday."

"I see," said Christian. "Another wise move, Patrick."

"He's a very intelligent young man," Roarke remarked with a smile. "I recall that, when Leslie was about to be married the first time, Tattoo came here in order to give away the bride, on extremely short notice, and spent a great deal of time telling us about you, Patrick. I've never seen such paternal pride…except perhaps in you, Christian." They all laughed. "There's little doubt Tattoo saw the potential in you, Patrick, and as Christian said, I am certain he'd have great pride in you. And he wouldn't have any less pride in his two daughters." He smiled at the girls.

Mireille looked wistfully at him and then at Leslie. "Tell us about when Papa worked here," she said, her voice plaintive. "He was here so long, you must have a lot of stories."

"Frankly, I'd find that interesting myself," Christian observed, grinning.

So the rest of lunch was devoted to assorted anecdotes about Tattoo; Roarke provided the majority of them, though Leslie certainly had her share of stories to tell. Their laughter often produced answering giggles from the triplets, so that it sounded rather like a family party throughout. After the meal Leslie and Christian fed the triplets, and Roarke treated the Latignon children to a quick tour of the main house.

In the upstairs spare room, which Roarke and Leslie had used for years as a combination extra bedroom and entertainment room, the children stared at a large early landscape Tattoo had done, which hung over the sofa. "Is that one of Papa's?" Mireille finally asked.

"Yes, it is," Roarke assured her. "I can see why you aren't certain. It was done many years ago, early in Tattoo's employment with me as my assistant." He smiled. "In fact, he gave it to me as a Christmas gift the second year he worked with me."

"When was that?" Patrick asked.

Roarke smiled, gazing at the painting. "It was the early 1960s, I believe. I never had many details, but I gleaned that Tattoo had had a very difficult time of it for some years. He grew up in France, and though he told me little of his past, it was my understanding that his childhood was happy. I recall a reminiscence he had once, about his mother comforting him when he was frightened or upset." He frowned slightly, thinking back. "I don't recall that anyone in his family came to his wedding to your mother, except for a cousin named Hugo. He didn't speak of it, but I had a feeling that something must have happened to his family, that he was forced to try to make his own way before he was quite old enough."

"How did he come to Fantasy Island?" Antoinette asked.

"He was very young," Roarke said slowly. "He tried again and again to find employment, and invariably he was rebuffed by prejudiced people. He was unjustly persecuted, treated as something less than human, and grew more and more desperate as he searched. He wandered farther and farther afield, hoping that somewhere, someone would have enough heart and intelligence to overlook his alleged handicap and give him a chance.

"It was the late 1950s when Tattoo and I met for the first time. I had been running this island for quite some time prior to his arrival, although business was not as…shall we say, brisk…as it is now." The Latignons laughed and he winked at them. "It was a quiet morning in the spring, and I was making out advance schedules for guest visits when someone came into the room. At first glance I thought it was a child, until I got a closer look. Tattoo's clothing had seen better days, and he clearly hadn't had enough to eat for some time. I later learned that he had spent the last of his money for a charter pass to get onto this island. Despite his condition, he was extremely proud. The very first thing he said to me was, 'My name is Tattoo, and I am an artist. Are you the owner of this island?'

"I said, 'Yes, I am, and I am also the highest authority here. What can I do for you?' He explained then that he had hopes of settling here, if I agreed to it, and perhaps making a living selling paintings of local scenes to my guests and the tourists who have always come here for simple vacations." Roarke smiled. "The idea had a certain appeal, but color film for snapshot cameras was becoming more and more widely available, and most people were able to take photographs of whatever suited their fancy…"

"Papa's paintings would have been prettier than any silly photograph," Mireille said loyally, sniffing.

Roarke laughed. "I won't argue with you there, my dear Mireille, but I did have to take that into consideration. It's very, very difficult for most artists to make a living from their work, even those with exceptional talent, such as your father. He had nothing to begin with—only his paints, which he carried with him, and he could do nothing without the money with which to buy canvases and an easel. It occurred to me then that perhaps I could help him after all—but I could see his pride, and I realized I would have to tread carefully.

"So I suggested we discuss the matter over lunch, and he agreed readily. Despite his bedraggled appearance, he had good manners and was very polite, which told me that he was no vagrant and had clearly been raised well, in a good family. I asked him some questions about himself; he had no place to live, and was out of money and quite at the end of the line. Yet he wanted no charity; he merely wished to make an honest living for himself, by selling his artwork.

"At the time I had noticed that my business was beginning to gain some notice. I had just had my first truly busy winter; and though I knew things would slow in the warm season, I could see the pattern. Once fall arrived it would pick up again, and I was going to need someone to help me. The spring and summer would afford me the chance to train an assistant in all the duties and responsibilities the position would entail. But I wasn't sure how to broach the idea to him, and thought it over for a bit while we ate.

"Then I knew what to do. I inquired as to whether he had perhaps seen the advertisement I had placed for an assistant. He looked quite surprised; he hadn't." Roarke smiled conspiratorially. "That was to be expected, since I had placed no advertisement to begin with." The children laughed. "I asked him if he might be interested in the job. I told him that while he might manage to eke out a living on his paintings, he might prefer to earn enough to have a proper roof over his head, buy the materials he needed to produce his paintings, and other such necessities of living. I told him the position would keep him busy, but that it would be interesting and varied, and it would afford him the chance to meet a great many people. 'You,' I said to him, 'are the first truly trustworthy-looking person I have seen, and you appear quite capable to me of handling the job—if you want it.'

"I wasn't certain at first if I had convinced him of my sincerity. He looked very hard at me for a moment or two and didn't say anything. Then," Roarke said with a grin, "I added that he would have two weeks of vacation every year, time that he could use to paint to his heart's content, or to do whatever else struck his fancy. He seemed shocked and exclaimed, 'Two weeks! In Europe we get four!'

" 'Indeed,' I said. 'Well, if you prefer four weeks of vacation, you may have them; but I daresay you'll find the job—and its setting—intriguing enough that you'll wonder what on earth you're going to do with yourself for four long weeks.' He stared at me for another very long moment, and then he started to laugh and told me he'd take the job. Your father was no more than fifteen years old, if that." Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille gasped as one, and he nodded. "Despite his extreme youth, he was already streetwise, and he never gave me cause to regret taking him on. He proved to be very competent, enjoyed his job greatly, and grew to love this island very much. He had a cheerful, open disposition that won him many friends here; and even though he often styled himself as something of a Romeo and seemed to be constantly ogling the young native girls here, he had a great soft spot for children and on a few occasions mentioned in passing his hopes to marry and have a family. On that he was always self-deprecating, but I knew that if the opportunity came up for him, he would be a devoted husband and father."

"How could you tell, though?" Mireille wanted to know.

Roarke smiled. "In the early 1970s, some close friends of mine were killed in a plane crash, and for almost two years their daughter Cindy lived with me here in the main house. Tattoo and she became friends, and they remained in touch after she left the island to go to college. Then when Leslie arrived here early in 1979, he took her right under his wing. She had lost both parents and her sisters in a tragic house fire several months before, and she was lonely, frightened and still grieving. Leslie was younger when she came to me than Cindy had been, and this meant that she would be under my care for several years; so we would have to learn to live amicably with each other. Leslie has since confessed that she was actually afraid of me when she first came here, and I myself was unsure how she would fit in. Tattoo provided a sort of bridge between us, putting her more at ease and engaging us both in conversations whenever the three of us were together, helping Leslie and me to know each other better. He smoothed the way for us both, and they grew close."

"I guess that's why he called her his 'honorary niece'," Patrick mused.

"Indeed so," Roarke agreed. "As if that weren't enough, he enjoyed playing with the island children; he was always at ease with them, for they accepted him unconditionally and looked up to him. He grew especially fond of a few of them over the years. One little girl eventually moved off-island to marry, sometime in the mid-70s. Just a few years later, she and her husband were killed, leaving an infant son named Patrick. Tattoo was deeply shocked by the young lady's death, and nearly adopted the baby himself."

The Latignons looked at each other in amazement. "He never told us that!" exclaimed Antoinette, amazed.

"Oh?" said Roarke and smiled again. "It must have stayed with him for a long time. I suspect he named you after that baby, Patrick."

Patrick's dark eyes grew very thoughtful. "Maybe he did. It would explain why I didn't get a typically French name, as the girls did."

They were quiet for a few minutes; then Antoinette said, _"Cousine_ promised us she would take us to see the museum that you built in Papa's memory."

"Indeed so, and she will do precisely that," Roarke assured her. "As a matter of fact, I think you'll have the triplets for company. She and Christian should be nearly finished feeding them, and once they're ready, you'll be on your way."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- December 18, 2004

They had just come out of the room when the door to Leslie's old room opened and Christian looked out on them, with Susanna in his arms. "I thought I heard voices up here. Tobias is taking all day, as usual, but with luck we'll be able to get going soon. I really have to get back to work in any case."

A burp sounded from the room behind him, and the Latignon children broke into laughter. Christian grinned and turned around as Leslie's voice remarked, "Well, it's about time, young man, you're holding up the whole show here. Christian, my love, it looks like you'll have to go back and put up with Jonathan and Julianne again after all."

Laughing, Christian gently bounced Susanna, who gurgled happily, and met the gaze of a smiling Roarke. "I think we can move the departure schedule up by a few minutes. I assume Leslie's taking our guests here on a tour?"

"Yes, I thought perhaps they would like to see their father's museum in particular, and also to visit his grave. There are still a few people here who recall the days when Tattoo was in my employ, and Leslie knows who they are, so there's some small chance that she and the children—yours and Tattoo's—will be late for dinner here."

"Well, I'll try not to be," Leslie said humorously, joining Christian at the door with Tobias in one arm and Karina in the other. Karina yawned, then squalled when Tobias hit her in the act of flailing an arm, and Leslie rolled her eyes. "Good grief, sibling squabbles already! The next eighteen years are going to be a struggle at this rate, my love."

"Discipline, my Rose, that's the key," Christian teased, kissing her. "I expect they'll probably fall asleep while you're showing Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille around the island, so that will help take care of the fighting issue. Suppose we get downstairs and strap the triplets into their car seats, and then you can get going."

"Do you want us to drop you off at your office?" Leslie offered.

Christian snorted, "There won't be any room for me in the car! In any case, I need a little exercise after sitting there holding Susanna. I'll just take the path from the back of the house into town. Much as I wish I could accompany all of you and hear more stories about Tattoo, I'm afraid there's a good bit of work awaiting me at my office. If you run out of places to go and people to see, drop in if you like."

"We'll keep that in mind," Leslie said, and they kissed again. "Let's get started."

Several minutes later, with the triplets in their car seats, Antoinette and Mireille in the back behind the babies, and Patrick sitting up front with Leslie, they got on the road, waving goodbye to Roarke and Christian. "You and Prince Christian have such a lovely romance, _cousine,"_ Antoinette observed enviously. "I hope that happens to me one day."

Leslie grinned. "Maybe someday we can introduce you to one of Christian's younger nephews," she suggested teasingly. "That aside, I think our first stop should be the museum. We had it built shortly after your father's funeral here, and it contains nothing but his work. It's been a while since we've had time to go visit, and I expect I'm overdue, so having you guys here is a great excuse."

"We can help you carry babies, too," Mireille put in excitedly.

"That you can!" Leslie agreed, grinning at her in the rearview mirror. "The museum isn't very far from here, so don't get too comfy back there."

Just past the Japanese garden and teahouse, the road curved inward a bit, away from the coastline, and at the point where it straightened out again they came upon a circular building constructed of columns of large, polished gray stone shot through with burnt-umber veins. The spaces in between each column bore windows with arched tops; a small portico jutted out from the circle at the entrance, and the marble façade over the doorway read, FANTASY ISLAND ART MUSEUM. The building was topped by a skylight-studded dome of white marble. "Is that Papa's museum?" Mireille asked.

"That's it," Leslie said, swinging the car off the road and into a small parking area that currently contained a few bicycles. "Even with all the paintings of your father's that are already hanging in there, it's not full yet, so the ones you sent us should fit in here just fine, Patrick…assuming they stay." She killed the engine and released the seat belt.

Patrick eyed her in confusion. "Why wouldn't they?" His dark eyes grew suspicious. "What would you do with them, then—sell them?"

Leslie paused and regarded him in silence, just long enough to make him drop his gaze, his cheeks flushing. Then she said gently, "Patrick, you have to know we'd never do a thing like that. But with your mother and LeNoir on their way here, if something can be worked out, maybe you'll be able to take them back home with you."

Patrick met her gaze with a skeptical look. "We'll see about that. I think they'll be safer here even if somehow we do talk _Maman_ into dumping that monster."

"That's to be seen," Leslie said. "You guys have a few days before you have to think about that anyway, remember? Come on, let's take a look inside."

She and the Latignon children got out of the car, and Leslie unstrapped the triplets from their car seats, lifting Tobias out first and depositing him into the arms of a delighted Antoinette. "He has three teeth!" she exclaimed, enchanted, when Tobias smiled at her.

"You're telling me," Leslie snorted and gave her a look. "I breast-feed, you know."

Patrick and Antoinette looked at each other with wide eyes, then both laughed at the same moment. Mireille made a face but giggled as well, and happily accepted Susanna when Leslie got her loose from her restraints. "Which girl is she?"

"That's Susanna," Leslie said. "Patrick, are you interested in being baby transportation, or do you prefer to wait a while?"

Patrick laughed. "I'll wait. Whenever Antoinette gets tired of amusing Tobias, I'll be glad to take him. Let him try to bite my tough old fingers."

"He _will_ bite," Leslie warned, grinning, undoing the last strap and snuggling a sleepy Karina into her arms. "Be warned, Antoinette. Let's go on in. Oh, poor baby," she murmured gently to her daughter as they crossed the parking lot. "All sleepy, huh?" She nuzzled the top of Karina's head and settled the drowsy infant onto her shoulder, following the Latignon children into the entrance and pausing beside the commemorative plaque mounted at their right. "Look here, before you go inside."

Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille stopped and stared at it. It was a bronze bas-relief of Tattoo, the way he had looked during his later years as Roarke's assistant, and bore a legend beneath it in raised capital letters:

_DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF TATTOO_

_VALUED ASSISTANT_

_EXTRAORDINARY ARTIST_

_CHERISHED FRIEND_

Antoinette read this aloud in a slightly trembling voice. "Did you say every painting in this building is by Papa?" she asked.

"That's right," Leslie said, nodding. "Come on in and you can see for yourselves."

Inside, they stood on a marble floor that matched the carved façade over the entrance. There were five or six other visitors here, all of them vacationers, and the building was quiet as they drifted around the perimeter examining the paintings. Leslie waited near the vestibule, feeling Karina relax into slumber against her shoulder, silently watching Tattoo's offspring taking in the body of their father's work. Susanna was quiet in Mireille's arms, with an entire fist stuffed into her mouth and her wide eyes—turning hazel to match Christian's, like her sister's eyes had done—absorbing the bright colors in the assorted Parisian scenes that Tattoo had so enjoyed painting for a few years. Tobias seemed uninterested, finding the topaz studs in Antoinette's ears of more interest, and Leslie grinned resignedly and caught up with them. "You'd better let Patrick take him," she suggested quietly, mindful of the sleeping Karina. "He likes your earrings."

Surprised, Antoinette turned her head to see Tobias still in the process of reaching for her ear, and smiled indulgently at him. _"Non, non, petit bébé,"_ she scolded gently, "that would hurt if you tried to take out my earring. Go and see Patrick, maybe he'll let you bite his finger." They all laughed quietly as Patrick cheerfully lifted Tobias from his sister's arms and settled the little boy's rump snugly into the crook of his arm.

By the time they had nearly finished circling the interior, Susanna had dropped her head on Mireille's shoulder and was dozing off, while Tobias was happily chomping on Patrick's thumb. Both seemed unaware of the babies they held, their full attention riveted on their father's works. Antoinette, realizing she stood in a patch of sunlight, examined the floor, then the painting she stood in front of, and then turned in a slow circle with her head tilted back, staring at the skylights. "Doesn't the light fade the paintings?" she asked.

"All the glass in the windows and the skylights is specially treated," Leslie explained. "It filters out ultraviolet rays, but it lets in natural light so that the paintings can be properly seen. You can thank Father for that. He wanted to be sure that Tattoo's work was displayed to its best advantage, but protected from the elements at the same time."

"Mr. Roarke thinks of everything," Patrick remarked. "I guess Papa was right, they did think of each other like brothers, in a way."

Leslie nodded. "They always had a close friendship. There were a couple of occasions when it was nearly broken, but it bounced back—they'd known each other too long and too well for that bond to succumb to outside influences." She cradled Karina's head, absently smoothing the baby's hair with her thumb. "They always came to each other's defense in a heartbeat if anyone ever said a harsh word or made a threatening gesture. In fact, I can think of a few occasions when Father more or less saved Tattoo's life, and Tattoo never forgot. If anyone ever tried to denigrate Father in any way, he was the first one to refute it."

"Did you ever see any of those times?" Mireille wanted to know.

"Oh, a few, here and there," Leslie murmured, smiling a little as memories washed over her. "There was a time before your parents met each other, when Tattoo decided to have his own fantasy granted…to become a love god." Patrick's and Antoinette's heads shot around at that, and all three of them gawked at her. She focused on them and giggled. "You can ask Father if you don't believe me. He got it all right, and he was having a great old time for a while…and then the natives who thought he was their god started losing their belief in him, and he actually had to escape from them. Father and I went out there to bring him home, and found him paddling the living daylights out of a canoe, trying to elude a bunch of pursuers. We threw him a line and towed him away."

Patrick laughed helplessly, making Tobias giggle in reply, and Antoinette groaned, while Mireille tried to dam up her own glee for the sake of a dozing Susanna. "I guess you could say that was saving Papa's life," Antoinette said, grinning despite herself. "What else?"

Leslie glanced around the building and smiled. "How about we wait till we get in the car. You haven't quite finished in here, and there's a special painting you should see."

She watched them complete their circuit of the interior, then brought them into the vestibule and pointed out the painting that hung on the wall opposite the bronze plaque they had seen coming in. "This was the last painting your father ever did—he wasn't able to finish it. Do you recognize who's in it?"

"That's us, isn't it?" Patrick asked, staring. The painting depicted Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille as children, playing together on an expanse of green grass, with part of a fence and some tree trunks in the background. It had never been completed, and it was the only unsigned canvas in the building. At the bottom of its frame Roarke and Leslie had had a small plaque attached that read, "Tattoo's Final Masterpiece."

"Mm-hmm," Leslie murmured with a nod. "Solange enclosed a note with that when it arrived here with all these others. She said she discovered it sitting on the easel the evening of the day your father passed on, and when she realized what the subject was, she sat on the stool there and cried for an hour."

There was silence for a moment, then Antoinette hung her head and muttered, "If only she had so much regard for Papa's things now!" Her brother rested his free hand on her shoulder; Mireille just gazed at the painting with big, sad eyes.

"Let me know when you're ready," Leslie murmured and left them to look as long as they wanted. She took Karina back out to the car and gently settled the sleeping baby into her car seat once more, carefully securing her in it. When she stood up again and glanced back at the building, she saw Mireille coming out with both Susanna and Tobias.

"Patrick and Antoinette wanted to stay a little more," she said as she reached Leslie, who lifted Tobias out of Mireille's grasp and put him in his car seat. "I couldn't bear to look anymore, so Patrick gave me Tobias and I brought them both with me."

"Thank you, Mireille," Leslie said, smiling. "We have plenty of time, we'll let them stay as long as they want. Oh no…Tobias Lukas Roarke Enstad, you and that teething ring! Look what happened to it!" she scolded gently, securing her son in his seat and picking up his discarded teething toy from the floor of the car. Dirt and tiny pebbles and hairs stuck to it. "Yuck!" She made an exaggerated face and Tobias giggled energetically.

Mireille laughed too. "I can wash it off in that water fountain over there," she volunteered as Leslie backed out of the car.

"Terrific, thanks, Mireille," Leslie said, handing her the teething ring and taking Susanna, whose doze had deepened. It was a relief for Leslie to see the girls both asleep; she'd noticed them beginning to display signs that they too were teething, and both Susanna and Karina had grown more fretful than usual. She had a funny feeling they wouldn't be nearly as amenable through the teething process as their brother had been.

Mireille came back as Leslie finished strapping Susanna in. _"Cousine…"_ she began, handing the teething ring to Tobias, who instantly began gnawing on it.

"Something wrong?" Leslie prompted when the girl hesitated.

Mireille looked away, bit her lip, then shrugged. "Nothing," she said. "Maybe I'll ask later. Here come Patrick and Antoinette, finally."

Her older siblings both looked downcast and withdrawn, and Leslie frowned as they approached. "Are you two all right?" she asked.

Antoinette only lowered her head farther, and Patrick glanced up. "We're fine," he said in a monotone, "but if you don't mind…we'd like to return to our bungalow."

Leslie wrestled a moment with trying to get them to talk, but something in Patrick's eyes told her she'd fail. "Okay," she said, unwillingly giving in. Maybe seeing their father's works, gathered here like this, had been too much for them…

"I don't want to go back to the bungalow," Mireille announced defiantly. "You two can go if you want, but I'm staying with Leslie and the babies."

"That's okay," Patrick said lifelessly. "Go ahead." They got into the car, both electing to sit in the back, and Mireille took the front passenger seat beside Leslie. No one said anything all the way back to the bungalows; Patrick and Antoinette got out of the car in silence and retreated without a word of farewell. Leslie sighed quietly to herself, wondering exactly what had caused them to retreat like that.

"Maybe it was the painting," Mireille said suddenly from beside her.

Leslie thought for a moment, remembered the haunted look in Antoinette's eyes before she'd shielded her face from view and the dead look in Patrick's. "I think you're right, Mireille," she said and sighed. "Well, let's do something happy, how about it? Christian did say we should stop in and see him if we ran out of places to go."

"Are there any left?" Mireille asked.

"Well, yes, but I think it's better if all three of you see them together," said Leslie. "So we'll wait till Patrick and Antoinette are feeling better. And anyway," she added, "I want to see exactly how busy my husband really is." Mireille giggled at that, and Leslie grinned back, putting the car in gear.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- December 18, 2004

In just a few minutes she had parked in front of Christian's office; he obviously had seen their arrival through the window, for he came out to meet them. "You finished your tour that quickly?" he asked with amused skepticism.

"Patrick and Antoinette saw something that bothered them, Your Highness," Mireille explained. "We saw all Papa's paintings at the museum that Mr. Roarke and _cousine_ built for them, and I never knew he did so many." She had Christian's interested attention while Leslie started removing Tobias' restraints. "But you see, there's one in the entry—it was never finished. Papa was working on it when he died, and the painting shows us—me and Patrick and Antoinette—playing in our yard, when we were small. I don't remember it, of course…but they must have. And I think it made them very sad. They both looked awful when they finally came out of the museum."

"I see," said Christian sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Mireille. I wish it were possible for us to show you happier places connected with your father." At that moment Leslie deposited Tobias in his arms and he grinned at her. "Gave me the biter, I see."

Leslie snickered. "Heck, he spends all his time biting me when I feed him, I figure you should have equal time." Christian laughed and she turned back to the car to undo Susanna's restraints. "He's awake, but the girls are both sleeping at least."

"So I see," Christian observed, watching Tobias munching contentedly on his teething ring. "You may be a glutton, son of mine, but at least you're easy to please." Mireille giggled, and he grinned at her. "So what brings you over here?"

"_Cousine_ said she wants to know if you're really as busy as you said you were," said Mireille cheerfully, and again Christian laughed, making Tobias giggle around his teething ring. Leslie, chuckling, emerged from the car with Susanna and gently settled her onto Mireille's shoulder.

"There you go, hold onto her just like that. So how busy _are_ you, my love?" she asked.

"Busy enough," Christian replied, raising an eyebrow but grinning at her. She winked and ducked back into the car to take out Karina. "Once you get them inside, I'll show you."

Mireille peered interestedly around Christian's shop when they came inside. "I like the way you decorated in here," she said, taking in the pale seafoam-green walls and the wallpaper border with hunter-green and tan geometric designs that ran around it at the ceiling level. "I think those are pretty colors."

"That's Leslie's doing," Christian said. "She chose the colors, and in fact she and her friends even painted this place and applied the wallpaper. I've discovered that it has the side effect of making it seem cooler in here, even on hot days."

"I guess in that case you won't be changing it anytime soon," Leslie said, taking the chair that sat beside Christian's desk while he settled in his own chair behind it. "Hmm, I guess you were right…you look pretty busy to me. Where is everybody?"

"Jonathan's in the back going through some files; Julianne's out on a call; Mateo's on Coral Island at the moment, getting some supplies, and Beth went to the high school to take a look at their computers. Did I miss anything, Anton?" Christian called across the office.

"Not a thing, Christian," Anton assured him. "Hello, Miss Leslie, how are the babies?"

"They're all fine," Leslie said, "although I think Karina and Susanna are about to start teething, and something tells me they'll have a worse time of it than Tobias did. Oh, by the way, my love, what happened to the infant carriers we kept in here?"

Christian cast her a surprised look, then seemed to remember. "Oh yes, I forgot—it's been some time since you had the triplets in here. I had to get rid of those carriers; the babies have outgrown them. Julianne was kind enough to bring in a play mat from home; she told me it was the one the quads themselves used to use. Jonathan?"

A moment later Jonathan's head poked out of the door to the back office. "Oh, hi, Boss Prince. Hey, the gang's all here, huh?"

"And sleeping, in a couple of cases," Christian said with a chuckle. "Would you bring out that mat Julianne brought in and unroll it, so that Leslie and Mireille can put Susanna and Karina on it to sleep?"

"Sure, no problem," said Jonathan and disappeared again.

Leslie grinned. "That's a great idea," she said. "Now if Tobias would just go to sleep…"

"I'll play with him when we have the girls on the mat," Mireille volunteered eagerly, watching Tobias chewing. "He really loves that toy, doesn't he?"

Christian chuckled and gently tickled his son under the chin. "As long as he has something to chew on, he's in seventh heaven. Once you take over, I can go through my e-mail. I've had so many repair projects today, I haven't been able to look at it yet."

Jonathan lugged out a dark-blue gymnastic mat about six feet on a side and unrolled it in the unoccupied corner of the room between Christian's desk and Mateo's. Leslie took Karina over to it and gently laid her on her back in the middle of the mat; then she took Susanna from Mireille and did the same thing, leaving about a foot of space between the two girls. Mireille lifted Tobias from Christian's lap, toted him over to the play mat and settled on a corner of it, where she could watch the girls and amuse Tobias at the same time.

"She'll make a great babysitter, I bet," Leslie mused, watching Christian bring up his e-mail account and check through the list of messages waiting for him. "Oh, I'd better bring in the diaper bag—be right back, my love."

When she returned with an outsized tote bag packed to bursting with infant paraphernalia, she noticed Christian staring at his computer screen with a frown of consternation. "Something wrong?" she asked.

Christian started a little and released a soft snort. "It's nothing really," he muttered.

Leslie eyed him suspiciously, dropping the bag on the floor beside the chair and resuming her seat. "Don't give me that, Christian. If it makes you look like that, it's definitely something. Come on, what is it?"

With a defeated sigh Christian fell back in his chair and eyed her reluctantly. "I can tell you right now, you're not going to like it," he said a little wearily.

"Tell me anyway," Leslie insisted.

"Fine. The message in question is from King Errico, and he's trying to up the stakes for that hypothetical branch in Santi Arcuros. He says he's already found an ideal location for the storefront, one that he claims will provide the maximum possible customer traffic, and that he actually collected inquiries and even a few job applications from almost a dozen people—though where they would have found copies of my applications is a mystery." Christian had drawn up a specialized job application for his business as far back as 1990, and anyone who wanted to apply for work with Enstad Computer Services had to come to a branch location in person and pick up a blank one. "Furthermore, he says that not only will he pay all the startup costs, he'll buy me the entire building outright and put the deed in my name—if I'll agree to begin the setup process next month."

"But I thought we settled all that," Leslie protested. "We told him back in September that the timing just wasn't right, especially with three babies to think of."

"I know," Christian said, slowly rubbing a palm down his face and closing his eyes. "I know all too well, my Leslie Rose. But _herregud_, the man is persistent." He slanted a cautious glance at her and looked away again at her agitated expression. "Leslie, you don't realize that you simply can't say no to a king—especially not _this_ king."

"Maybe _you_ can't," Leslie retorted, "but _I_ can. Let me at that message, and I'll tell him in no uncertain terms that it just isn't going to fly right now."

Christian gave her a sharp look. "Leslie," he said, "think about it. I make a healthy income from the three locations I have now, I won't deny that. And I'll be the first to tell you that a Santi Arcuros branch is not vital to the health of the business. But the London location is still in the process of paying for itself, and the traffic isn't quite up to the level I'd like it to be. I have to keep a very sharp eye on the place. Listen to me: Errico is offering to pay every last _öre_ of the costs for starting a branch in his country. He's offering to buy the building, for fate's sake, and not only that but to buy it for me, rather than himself. To hear him talk, I have people lining up in the hope of being employed by me. The only cost to me is five percent of the annual profits donated to one of his or Michiko's charities, my choice. If the building's location is everything Errico says it is, the place would pay for itself perhaps by this time next year, depending on how long the setup takes. And since we have three babies, who undoubtedly will be college students approximately eighteen years from today, I have to tell you that the prospect of extra income is very welcome right now."

"But…" Leslie began, feeling deflated by Christian's arguments. "But…it means you'd be gone at least two months…maybe longer!"

Christian sighed again and slumped a little in his chair. "I know, my darling," he said softly. "And believe me, I don't like the idea of missing two months of the triplets' development—not to mention being away from you for so long. We haven't been separated like that since I was married to Marina. No, my Rose, I don't like it either, but I'm afraid it's a necessary evil. The alternative is that you and the triplets come with me—causing you to miss a full two months of work." He lowered his chin and peered reprovingly at her; they'd had a fairly lengthy talk about that early in Leslie's pregnancy, when she'd admitted to feeling guilty about "abandoning" Roarke for a three-month maternity leave. "And I know you have no wish to do that."

Leslie propped an elbow on the work arm of the desk with a dull thump and rested her forehead in her hand. "No," she mumbled and peeked sheepishly at him from between two fingers. "I'm afraid if I take any more time off before the triplets turn one, Father'll fire me and recruit Julie."

Christian chuckled shortly. "Then it seems pretty clear what has to be done, doesn't it? You know I prefer to have a hand in the hiring, as much as I possibly can."

"I just wish you didn't have to go halfway around the world to do it," Leslie protested plaintively. "I know we have Ingrid and she can help with the feedings, but it isn't the same thing, not one bit. And if you're gone long enough, the babies might not know their own father when you get home again."

He winced. "Did you have to mention that? That already crossed my mind; in fact, I even tried to dissuade Errico with that argument. He merely told me that you could e-mail photos of the babies every week."

Leslie groaned and rolled her eyes. "You're right…he's certainly persistent!"

"And as if all that weren't enough, he told me he'd send fifty cases of Vallomoros Vineyard wines to the castle," Christian added, rolling his own eyes. "That's when I finally told him that he was out-and-out bribing me. To which he said, 'Whatever it takes to get that branch here.' Nothing I could say would make him accept a 'no'."

"I'd tell him no anyway," Leslie grunted, "if only because he's sending that wine to the castle and not to us!" Christian laughed finally, and she responded with a reluctant grin. "I know I'm being difficult about this, my love, and I'm sorry. It's only that…"

Christian scooted his chair closer to the work arm and gathered her hands between his. "Perhaps it will make you feel slightly better to know that Errico is leaving us our Christmas together. I don't have to appear till January, he says, three weeks from now."

"How generous," Leslie muttered. She looked up wistfully. "Oh, Christian, I don't mean to take it out on you. But I so hate it when you're gone. It always reminds me of all those years we had to be apart."

Christian smiled at her. "I know, my darling," he said. "I wish it could be different, but it just can't be helped, under the circumstances. However…I do have one point I refuse to back down on. Errico has told me that he'll wait for my go-ahead before he takes any action. If I do tell him to begin efforts on my behalf, it will take some time to make the building purchase and get the office furniture and equipment that will be needed. During that time, I'll stay with the family in Lilla Jordsö. There's no reason for me to be sitting around Santi Arcuros waiting for things to be finished. Errico can as easily forward applications to me, and I can review them in private."

"In private?" Leslie echoed, not understanding.

"You know that if I go directly to Santi Arcuros and stay there throughout the whole process, Errico will insist on putting me up in the palace, which probably just makes sense. But I'm afraid he'd want a hand in the process of choosing employees, and it's a quirk of mine to do that entirely alone. I simply can't abide someone looking over my shoulder, and the family is well aware of that…so I'm going to remain in Lilla Jordsö till I hear that the building is complete and ready for opening. And with luck, I'll have made enough choices to conduct interviews in the shortest time possible, get people hired and installed, and come back home to you and the children. Does that make it any better?"

"Not much," Leslie said with a little half-smile, "but knowing you're no more thrilled about being away than I am helps a little." She sighed, while Christian watched her with gentle amusement in his eyes. "Well, like you said, at least he's letting us have the holidays together. If he'd suggested you miss the triplets' first Christmas—"

"Then I _would_ have said no," Christian broke in, and they both laughed. "You know I'll stay in touch with you all the way through the process, my Rose—I could never get by without constant contact with you." He grinned then. "Not only that, but I intend to hold Errico to his promise of fifty cases of Vallomoros wine. And when they appear at the castle, I'm going to bring home the full quota allowed by the international limit."

"That almost makes up for Errico's insistence that you do all this in the first place," Leslie said, grinning. "Okay, okay. I guess we were going to have to deal with it sooner or later anyway, and Errico just lost patience. You might as well give him the green light on it, my love, but tell him the whole thing's off if he fails to deliver that wine."

Laughing, Christian agreed and squeezed her hands before turning back to the computer to reply to Errico's message. "You're being a good sport about all this, my Rose, and I appreciate it. Do you need to check in with Mr. Roarke?"

"Not necessarily; it was understood that we were going to be out for some time, looking at sites associated with Tattoo. But maybe I should call him anyway just to let him know what happened with Patrick and Antoinette, in case he wants to check in with them." She took the phone receiver that Christian handed her and waited while he punched out the number to the main house, then updated Roarke on what had happened.

When she finished, Roarke was silent a moment; then he asked, "What of Mireille?"

"She seems to be fine," said Leslie. "She's here with us, playing with Tobias."

"All right," Roarke said. "In that case, I'll stop at Patrick and Antoinette's bungalow and see if they need anything. May I assume you'll remain where you are?"

"Unless either Mireille gets restless or Christian decides to kick us out, we'll be here," Leslie said, catching Christian's amused grin as he sent his response to Errico and maximized a window containing a program he was in the process of writing. "At the latest we'll be back for supper."

"Very well," said Roarke. "Since Tattoo's children brought us our only fantasy this weekend, things are quiet otherwise. Tell Christian hello…and incidentally, that I wish him the best of luck in his hiring process for his new branch in Santi Arcuros."

Leslie rolled her eyes to herself and simply promised, "I'll tell him…thanks, Father."

Christian looked around as she hung up. "Tell me what?"

"He says hello and wishes you luck with the Santi Arcuros hiring," she replied, enjoying his incredulous reaction. With a playful shrug, she said, "Don't ask me how he does it. At least I've finally learned to just accept it."

Chuckling a little reluctantly, Christian conceded, "That's probably the best thing to do. Oh…is there a problem?" He addressed Mireille with this last, as she had stood up with Tobias in her grasp, holding him a few inches away from her.

"He needs changing," Leslie guessed.

"How did you know?" Mireille exclaimed.

Leslie grinned. "What other reason would there be for holding him away from you like that?" Mireille giggled a little sheepishly, and Leslie picked up the diaper bag and went over to change her son. Christian watched for a moment, grinning, then returned to his program. Mireille settled down nearby and watched Leslie change Tobias.

"Was it a big surprise to you to get three babies at the same time?" she asked.

"Definitely," Leslie assured her, carefully setting aside the soiled diaper. "But we were thrilled too. It was hard for me to get pregnant, and we have no idea if it'll ever happen again, so we're enjoying having them. Christian was glad we had one boy."

Mireille propped her chin atop her knees, which she had drawn up and was hugging. "Men like to have sons, don't they? Do you think Papa was like that?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Leslie said, smiling, wiping her son clean. "Your father loved kids, both boys and girls. He was equally happy to get you, your brother _and_ your sister."

"Mr. Roarke said he used to play with the children here," Mireille said.

"Yes, he did," Leslie said. "The younger kids always warmed right up to him. My friends liked him too, once they got to know him through me. As a matter of fact, my friend Myeko once pretended to scold him."

"Why?" Mireille asked, eyes wide with fascination.

Leslie grinned and said, "She used to throw terrific Halloween parties when we were in high school—in fact, she developed a reputation for it, and it was considered a kind of achievement to get an invitation. I always got one, just because I was in her circle of friends, but most years my costumes were terrible. One year I even wound up wearing the same one she was, except hers was far better. So in our senior year—Myeko's last party—your father helped me out. I couldn't think of anything that hadn't already been done over and over again by everybody else. But then Tattoo told me I could go as the Invisible Woman." And she went on to relate the story to a mesmerized Mireille.

"Did you win something?" Mireille asked.

"Yep, I got the prize for Most Original Costume. The funny part of that is that a few days later, Myeko asked me why I hadn't gone to Father or Tattoo for help earlier, and I told her I was afraid it would've been seen as cheating."

"Cheating!" Christian echoed from the computer, and Leslie and Mireille both turned to stare at him in surprise. He grinned and said with a headshake, "Sometimes, my Leslie Rose, you're just too honest."

They all laughed, and Leslie shrugged amiably. "Could be. But Tattoo deserved the credit for thinking up the idea. If it hadn't been for him, I'd probably have thrown a sheet over my head." She finished tugging Tobias' overalls on him and settled him in her lap, looking at him just in time to catch him yawning. "Aha, he's finally wearing down. He's been awake a lot longer than usual, and I was starting to wonder if he'd ever sleep."

Mireille watched with a wistful look in her big dark eyes, so reminiscent of Tattoo's. _"Cousine…"_ she said and stopped, just as she had before.

"What is it?" Leslie asked indulgently, lifting Tobias to her shoulder in the hope of putting him to sleep by rubbing his back.

Mireille opened her mouth, sat looking undecided, then deflated and shook her head. "Nothing," she murmured.

Leslie peered at her a little worriedly, but she saw the tight-lipped look that crossed Mireille's features and again gave up. "Well, you know you can talk to me anytime," she said and left it at that, rocking gently back and forth a bit for Tobias' sake, wondering what was weighing so heavily on Mireille's mind.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- December 20, 2004

Sunday had passed in an unusually calm manner, because Patrick and Antoinette had barely bothered to leave their bungalow. Even Roarke hadn't been able to persuade them to talk to him. Only Mireille had bothered to venture out, and during breakfast with Roarke and Leslie, she'd begged for more anecdotes about Tattoo. They'd told her a few stories about the years when Tattoo's cousin Hugo had come up with one bogus moneymaking scheme after another, promising Tattoo overnight riches every time and inevitably failing, and she had laughed so hard she was the last to finish her breakfast. Leslie had then taken her to the island's amusement park, which had delighted the girl no end.

This morning Christian and Leslie took advantage of the early quiet, feeding the triplets in the living room. "So what are you going to do with Tattoo's children today?" Christian asked a bit idly, his main attention on Tobias' energetic depletion of the bottle. All three triplets had begun on solid foods, and as a result Leslie was down to two breast-feedings a day—the morning feeding and the one that usually followed supper for herself and Christian. The babies all ate rice cereal and strained veggies now; Tobias, a little ahead of his sisters, was able to handle small slices of banana, whereas the girls' food still needed to be pureed. Leslie, following Dr. Corbett's advice, had made things far easier on herself and Christian by letting the babies decide what they wanted. The doctor had told her, "They'll get all they need sooner or later—their bodies decide what's needed most from one day to the next, and it all evens out. Don't force anything on them, or all five of you—the triplets, you, and Christian—will be miserable, and feeding time will be a horror. If you let them take what they like each day, you'll notice that they do in fact get a good variety—and in my experience, kids who are allowed to do that turn out to be much less picky eaters." So they had tried it, discovered to their delight that it worked fine, and had three healthy, happy babies to enjoy.

Leslie glanced up now and smiled at him. "I'm not sure…depends on whether we can get Patrick and Antoinette out of their burrow. Father said they didn't come out all day yesterday. I don't think it has as much to do with Solange and that guy as it does with Tattoo. I have a feeling they're going through a fresh round of grief over his loss, and I think it's exacerbated because of Solange's involvement with this character."

"That makes sense," Christian said. "You didn't take them to his grave yet, did you? And what of Mireille? She seems less affected than her siblings."

"She was a lot younger when Tattoo died—only three," Leslie said. "She may not even be able to remember him, or if she does, her memories will be blurry and fading. She's asking for a lot of information about Tattoo, so Father and I have been telling her stories about him, and she gets quite a kick out of the funny ones."

Christian nodded. "I understand that. In my experience it's analogous to my wondering about my grandfather, King Lukas. I have those few fuzzy memories of him yet, but there are times when someone mentions him and I start to wonder. It happened somewhat more in my teens and twenties, I think. Since Carl Johan and Anna-Laura can remember him much better, I've occasionally asked them about him."

Leslie nodded and said, "I thought about taking them to Tattoo's grave, but with the mood Patrick and Antoinette seem to be in, I don't know whether that's appropriate—if it would make them feel worse, or help them feel a connection with him."

"True," Christian murmured. "Perhaps I'll call your father for you and see if he has anything in mind where they're concerned."

Karina and Susanna both finished before Tobias did, and Leslie detached each girl as soon as she indicated she was full, to keep them from biting her in search of teething relief. Christian sat apparently lost in thought, his toes wiggling absently in his socks and his face bearing a faraway, slightly pensive look, while Tobias continued hungrily depleting his bottle. Ingrid came out to burp Karina while Leslie finished with Susanna, casting a curious glance at her husband from time to time and wondering what he was thinking about.

When Ingrid had retreated to her usual housekeeping chores and Leslie was patting Susanna's back to burp her, with Karina sitting at her side on the sofa gumming her own arm, she finally ventured to interrupt her husband's reverie. "Christian, my love, is there something wrong?"

Christian blinked and started, then shrugged a little. "Just thinking about the Santi Arcuros project, that's all. I have to wonder if it's really necessary for me to go all the way over there before Errico says the building is ready..."

"My love, we went through that," Leslie said gently. "You're the one who told me it's impossible to say no to this king."

Christian eyed the ceiling and muttered, "Me and my big mouth." She giggled, and he turned to her with reluctant amusement. "What I was actually wondering is whether I'd be able to get away with making excuses to the family as to why I'd changed my mind about coming in January and staying with them till I get word from Errico. Carl Johan and Anna-Laura might allow me to get away with it, but I'm sure the younger ones won't."

"Probably not," Leslie said knowingly. "After all, they want to be able to squeeze lots of advice out of you that they don't dare ask their parents for."

Christian burst out laughing, setting off the triplets. "You're probably right! I guess there's really very little I can do about it. I've started telling myself that if someone decides to try to cajole me into setting up a fifth branch, I'll leave the headaches of day-to-day operation to the managers, stop going into even this office, and retire as chairman of the board. The trouble is, I enjoy the actual tinkering too much. I like having a hand in the repairs and the programming. Not only that, but I'm too much of a perfectionist; I want to be sure anyone I hire measures up to my standards. They have to be not just good at what they do, but exceptional."

Leslie said quizzically, "You never seem to have had much trouble finding people who do measure up. No reason you won't find them in Santi Arcuros as much as you did here or in London or Sundborg."

"Oh, I know. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is that I expect too much of my people. Do you think so?" At this Christian turned to Leslie with earnest, serious appeal in his hazel eyes. "Am I asking too much of those I hire? Do I set my standards too high? Am I too picky in my choices and the way I make them?"

Leslie considered that for a moment. "Well," she said slowly, "I think it depends on a few key factors. Have you ever had a really serious complaint from any customer? I don't mean things like quibbling over what you charge and so forth, but stuff like a bad repair job or a poorly written program that wiped stuff off someone's hard drive."

"No," Christian said after a moment's thought. "Whatever complaints may have come along, they must have been minor enough that they were resolved at the manager's level, at most. Nothing big has ever been reported to me, and I've insisted that be done if needed."

"Okay," she said. "Then do your employees ever complain about the way you run the business? Do they think anything's unfair to them?"

Christian frowned and pondered the question at some length, while Tobias finally let go of the bottle and started to gnaw on the nipple. "To the best of my knowledge no one has ever said anything—at least not to me," he quantified a little wryly. "I can't be certain any of my former employees hasn't told tales out of school, whether real or fabricated, but those who have stayed with me seem happy."

"Well, then," Leslie mused, "I wouldn't say you're too picky or have too high a standard. I just think you're protective of your business. You want to stand out in the field, be thought of as the best at what you do, and have employees who can live up to that. If that means you prefer to do the hiring yourself, there's nothing wrong with that at all."

"I thought the same thing," Christian admitted with a relieved smile, "but I wondered if that was only my ego talking. I needed some confirmation, and you just gave it to me. Thank you, my Rose. Perhaps I was only feeling guilty that it would take me away from you and the triplets for so long."

"Well, we can always talk about that retirement you mentioned the next time someone wants you to expand the company again," Leslie teased, and they both laughed. "I still don't like it, but I guess it's the vagaries of the business. When you do get to Arcolos, you could maybe suggest strongly to Errico that he send Michiko back to Fantasy Island for the duration of your stay there, as a sort of hostage."

Christian snorted with glee. "That'd get quite the laugh from him," he said. "The man stopped at nothing to make sure things went forward. I'm to be shuttled from here to Lilla Jordsö, and then again to Arcolos, on Errico's royal jet—and back again, too, I might add. He said he'll have the plane ready and waiting in Honolulu when I step off the Fantasy Island charter. When I told him you wondered why the wine was going to the castle rather than here, he assured me he'd send ten more cases here to the island for our personal wine cellar, which doesn't exist…not that I told him that. He agreed to every condition I laid out. It makes me wonder how far I can push him—just how badly does he want Enstads Datoservice in Santi Arcuros, I'd like to know?"

Leslie grinned and advised, "Well, don't push the friendship over a cliff, my love. I guess we'll just have to grin and bear it. Since you mentioned it earlier, why don't you check in with Father, while I change these imps. They have a nice sense of timing."

About half an hour later Christian and Leslie took the triplets with them to the main house, where they met up with all three of the Latignon children. Patrick and Antoinette looked better today, Leslie thought; and while they and their younger sister played peekaboo games with the triplets, she paused at Roarke's desk, with Christian watching curiously at her side. "Do they seem all right to you, Father?" she asked.

Roarke glanced over her shoulder at the Latignons. "Mireille is in her usual high spirits," he said, "but the older two are harder to read. Young Patrick seems quite grim, and Antoinette appears to be deeply worried about something. Perhaps it's wiser for you to ask them what they'd like to do. Do you intend to bring the triplets along?"

"We considered it," Christian said, "but I think they're better off here. We would have left them with Ingrid, but I expect we'll be gone most of the day. Perhaps we can leave them here for a time at least, where Mariki can spoil them a little and you can have some time with them as well, and we'll see what Tattoo's children would like to do."

Roarke agreed to that, and then gently put the question to the Latignons, who looked at one another a little anxiously. "You said we could visit people who had memories of the days when Papa worked here," Antoinette said finally.

"We can do that," Leslie said with a nod and an assessing look. "That is…if you and Patrick really feel up to that. Neither of you looks particularly happy, and before you try to protest, you should know that Father noticed your mien. If Tattoo's stories of Father were accurate at all, you'll know what that means."

Patrick grunted in disgust, making Tobias stare at him with a comically dubious expression that drove Christian over to retrieve his son from the young man's arms. Patrick gave him a quick apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. But if _cousine_ is right…" He looked at Roarke almost reluctantly. "You're right, Mr. Roarke, it's not exactly going well for us. I went on the computer in our bungalow and checked our trust-fund accounts in our bank in Paris—my sisters' and my own. Ever since _Maman_ took up with Georges, I've done this. Up till yesterday, they were intact. Now I see that the amounts in all three of our accounts have been reduced by easily a hundred euros apiece."

Christian and Leslie looked at each other, and Roarke frowned. "And you suspect Monsieur LeNoir of taking that money," he said.

Patrick nodded grimly. "Not once in all the years since Papa died has _Maman_ touched our money—she never needed to do that. I don't know why LeNoir would have done it, but no one else could possibly be responsible."

Roarke nodded faintly, his dark eyes distant. "There is little I can do at the moment," he said at last, "until your mother and Monsieur LeNoir arrive here. I do intend to speak with Solange…"

"But Father, that leaves their accounts wide open to LeNoir," Leslie protested. "Isn't there some way they can contact Solange and ask her why she gave him access to their money?" Before he could reply she swung around to Patrick. "Has LeNoir come across to you as rich or poor?"

Looking startled, Patrick said hesitantly, "We were never told…"

Leslie snorted. "Of course not. Keep the lady's kids in the dark while stealing from them. Oh, just wait till Solange gets here…"

"Calm down, Leslie," Roarke advised, while Christian eyed her with amused surprise. "As I said, there is little we can do. Solange and Monsieur LeNoir will be here Thursday, and until then our hands are tied; it's that simple, I am sorry to say."

"They couldn't put a block on their own accounts?" Leslie persisted, still outraged on the Latignons' behalf.

"My darling," Christian broke in, "you need to remember that Patrick told you on Saturday that they don't receive sole control of their accounts until they reach age twenty-one. If that leaves Solange in charge, it's entirely her prerogative—unfortunate though it is—to give access to whomever she chooses. And apparently she gave it to LeNoir."

"But why?" Leslie demanded. "That's the question I want to see answered."

"_Sacre bleu, cousine,_ you're a tiger," Patrick remarked admiringly. "Maybe you should be the one interrogating _Maman_ when she and LeNoir get here."

Christian grinned at him. "For that matter, I'd set her loose on LeNoir himself, in the mood she's in now." They both laughed while Leslie made a somewhat sheepish face and Roarke chuckled.

"Suppose we put it out of our minds for the moment while you amuse the triplets," Roarke suggested, "and when it appears they are ready for naps, you can embark on your outing for the day. We will get our answers soon enough."

§ § § -- December 22, 2004

It was late afternoon and the triplets had gone down for a nap, so Leslie brought the Latignons to the quiet little cemetery where Tattoo had been buried. Patrick and Antoinette resisted at first, but Leslie said gently, "I haven't been back in a while, and I really think you three should come with me. Besides, we picked a special place for him. Come on."

She pulled the car off the Ring Road some distance past the hospital and led the three along a path of erratically placed stepping stones that wound seemingly aimlessly through a thickly wooded area. By the time they reached the small, carefully tended square of bright green grass, outlined by a low wall of loosely stacked stones, they'd walked into what felt like a fairy glen, so secluded from the outside world that nothing could be heard but the occasional bird calling. Even the wind in the trees sounded subdued.

"It's so small," Antoinette said, astonished.

"And there are only three graves here," Patrick added, almost equally surprised. "It's that special a place?"

"Sure is," Leslie said with a little smile. "The grave in the far corner belongs to my first husband, and this one here at the right in this corner is a lady Father was married to for a few days, who died of a brain tumor. She was the love of his life, I think. And this one is your father's." She led them along to the grave set about midway up the emerald carpet of grass at the left; there was an azalea bush planted on each side of the headstone. The bushes were in bloom but past their prime, and little clear-pink flowers had been showered across the stone and its accompanying grave as blossoms fell.

Leslie settled into the grass nearby and watched while Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille crouched beside the headstone, reading and re-reading the inscription. No one spoke for some time, and Leslie eventually arose and wandered over to Helena Marsh's grave by herself, thinking that next time she came here she might plant a rosebush. At the moment a small pot containing a pale-lavender orchid rested just beside the headstone, and she smiled, suspecting Roarke had left it there. Helena had been gone for twenty-five years, but Leslie knew he would always miss her. Very occasionally, they heard from Helena's son, Jamie, and his wife Pavithra, who still ran Jamie's parents' hospital school in Calcutta.

The grass rustled near her and she turned to see Mireille approaching with an odd look on her face. She had Solange's girlish features, made somewhat more so by the roundness of her face that Tattoo had bequeathed; she also had her father's knowing dark eyes and thick, lustrous black hair. "What can I do for you?" Leslie asked.

Mireille opened her mouth, then hesitated, and just as Leslie was about to gently prompt her, the girl's eyes strayed to Helena's grave marker. "Who was that?"

"Father's wife," Leslie said. "I was fourteen when they were married and she died—I hadn't been here a full year yet, for that matter. She and Father were very much in love."

"Was she nice?" Mireille asked.

"Absolutely," Leslie remembered. "She was very sweet, and I don't think you could've found a more generous and giving lady. She had a son a few years younger than I am—he lives in India with his wife."

Mireille nodded faintly, her gaze straying, and began to rock back and forth on her heels and toes. That funny look crossed her face again, and she began, _"Cousine—"_

"Leslie?" called Patrick at that precise moment from Tattoo's gravesite. "Would you be willing to take us into the town so that we can get a bush to plant at Papa's grave?"

Leslie glanced at him, looked at Mireille whose expression was now thwarted, and laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Sure, Patrick, I'd be glad to do that," she said. And like that, the moment was gone, leaving Leslie wondering what Mireille had been trying to say to her all week long.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- December 22, 2004

In town, Mireille stubbornly stuck by Leslie's side when she dropped off Patrick and Antoinette at the pedestrian shopping area. "Are you going to visit His Highness at his shop, Leslie?" she asked.

"I just told Patrick and Antoinette that I would," said Leslie, eyeing her oddly. She'd assured the two that they could take as much time as they liked in making a choice of plant for their father's grave, and she'd be at Christian's office. "You mean you want to come with me? You're really sure you don't want to help choose a bush?"

"I told Patrick and Antoinette to make it a rosebush," Mireille said dismissively. "I keep getting interrupted and I want to ask you something without them around."

Leslie studied her. "You've been trying all week, haven't you? What's wrong?"

Mireille drew in a deep breath and gave Leslie the most heartbreakingly plaintive look she'd ever seen. "Please, _cousine,_ can I stay and live here with you and Prince Christian? I promise not to be any trouble and I can help with the triplets!"

Leslie's first impulse was to laugh, but she swallowed it back; she could see that Mireille was deadly serious. "Honey," she said softly, "believe me, if anyone could be granted automatic asylum on this island, it'd be Tattoo's kids…but you need more of a reason than just wanting to get away from your mother and that boyfriend of hers. And that's why you're asking, isn't it?"

"I don't want to go back when they come here," Mireille begged, the eyes that were so reminiscent of Tattoo's filling with tears. "Patrick has his own flat, and Antoinette's usually away with her ballet company and doesn't come back home very often, so she can get away from that terrible Georges and his staring eyes. But I can't. I'm not even thirteen yet, and I have to live with _Maman_ and Georges. And she doesn't see what he does. He stares at me sometimes, almost the way he stares at Antoinette, and other times he slaps me. Every time I go to Patrick's flat after school, Georges will slap me and tell me I was disobedient."

Leslie slipped an arm around Mireille's shoulders and leaned down a little to give them a touch more privacy. "And your mother never sees him do it, is that right?"

Mireille nodded, jarring the standing tears loose from her eyes. "She wouldn't believe me if I told her about it. She thinks Georges is wonderful. Please, Leslie, please say yes!"

Leslie hugged Mireille, remembering Tattoo's funeral and the way the then-three-year-old child had clung to her almost constantly throughout the few days she had been here with Solange, Patrick and Antoinette. And as she stood there considering it, she suddenly remembered who else had come with them, and had an idea that she carefully tucked into the back of her mind. "Tell you what, Mireille," she said, "let's go to Christian's shop. I can ask him to check out LeNoir online and see if he comes up with anything. Okay?"

"But what about living with you?" Mireille persisted.

"I wish I could say yes…I know you're upset and scared of LeNoir. But I have a feeling your mother would have a few words to say about it. Don't forget, we've got Father, and he's not going to let this go without thoroughly investigating LeNoir and interviewing Solange. He'll get to the bottom of this, I promise you. Come on, let's go and see Christian."

Christian looked up in surprise when they came in. "Hello, my Rose…trouble?"

"A tad," Leslie said with a smile, appropriating the chair that rested beside Julianne's desk and placing it beside the one she normally sat in when she came here. "Mireille, you can sit here. My love, do you have any tissues?"

"I've got some," Beth Keoki volunteered, grabbing a tissue box off her desktop and bringing it to them. "Hi, Miss Leslie."

"Hi, Beth, how's it going?" Leslie said.

"Not bad," Beth replied. "Can't wait for Christmas."

Leslie laughed. "I don't blame you. It's going to be pretty exciting at our house, that's for sure. Thanks for the tissues." Beth grinned and retreated, and Leslie gave Mireille the box, taking her usual chair. "Okay?"

Mireille nodded and mopped at her eyes, while Christian watched questioningly. When Leslie had settled down, he turned to her and asked, "What's going on?"

"I had an idea," Leslie said. "If you're not in the middle of something, my love, could you do a search on Georges LeNoir?"

Christian's eyes lit. "Now why didn't I think of that myself? Let's see what we can come up with." He gave Mireille a wink and a reassuring smile, then turned to his computer and brought up a search engine, swiftly typing in LeNoir's name and then pausing. "There's no telling how many men by that name might be out there. Is there anything you can tell me about him, Mireille, that might help narrow down my search?"

Mireille's dark eyes flashed in a way that jolted Leslie, stirring up a dozen memories of Tattoo when he was in the thick of defending someone dear to him. "Type in 'crook'," she suggested maliciously.

Christian and Leslie both laughed. "I imagine that would get some results, but I'm thinking more along the lines of what he does for a living, for example. Do you happen to know that?" Christian asked. "Does he own a company, perhaps? Is he known for anything that you're aware of?"

Mireille slumped back a bit in her chair and thought about it. "He likes money," she said finally. She met Christian's gaze. "I overheard him talking to _Maman_ once, not so long after they met. He told her that he was rich, he'd just inherited money from a rich uncle who had died a little while ago. He said he could solve all our worries."

Christian and Leslie looked at each other. "The standard story," Christian muttered. "Solange must be smarter than that! Did he say what this uncle's name was?"

"I don't know," Mireille said, shrugging. "I didn't hear anything after that. But he did say the rich uncle was a baron."

"Rich _and_ noble," Christian murmured, shaking his head. "All right, well, let's see if that gives me anything." He added the word "baron" after LeNoir's name, then hit the enter key and sat back to wait. Quite a few listings came up, but nothing that directly linked LeNoir's name with any baron. "There's a baron named LeNoir listed in Nantes, but his name isn't Georges…" Christian clicked on the link. "Maybe there'll be a list of relatives."

"Your Highness…" Mireille ventured, and Christian peered at her over his shoulder. "When you were still a prince instead of a computer repairman…did you meet a lot of French nobility? Did they make a lot of trips to _Île Petit Terre?"_

Christian blinked at her, then laughed. "Oh, so that's what you call us in French, is it? I'm sure I saw more than my share of nobility, but none of them stand out in my memory, I must admit. It's all right, we'll keep trying." He backed out of the site that had come up and clicked on a few others, asking questions here and there but getting nowhere. Mireille just didn't have enough information about LeNoir to give him a good foothold.

"Well, Patrick and Antoinette are supposed to come here when they've finished picking out a bush to plant at Tattoo's grave," Leslie said. "Maybe they'll know more about him. Don't worry, Mireille, we'll figure something out…and even if we don't, remember, Father'll get to the bottom of the whole thing."

Mireille nodded, looking a little forlorn, and then asked, "Is there a bathroom here?"

"In the corner back there," Christian said and gestured towards it. She got up and crossed the room, and he and Leslie watched a moment; then he turned to her and said low, "She looks as if she's losing hope."

Leslie leaned over the work arm and said, "It's possible. Just before we came in here, she asked me if she could live with us—and she was totally serious about it. That LeNoir must be one oily snake to drive her to ask that."

"Well, that can't be all of it," Christian said with a smile. "Mr. Roarke mentioned to me a few days ago that when they were here for Tattoo's funeral, Mireille fastened herself to you like a little leech and refused to let go. Perhaps she has some memory of that, the way she's turned to you now."

Leslie grinned a bit sheepishly. "I don't know about that, but I do recall that it really got to me at the time. It was just under a year before I met you, actually, and I think I was just starting to grow aware of the biological clock." At his quirked brow, she shrugged and said, "I think plenty of women start to notice it when they hit thirty, but for most it doesn't matter so much—they still have loads of time to get pregnant. But there were mitigating factors in my case, of course."

"Of course," said Christian, then grinned back. "So I suppose you're saying you still feel something of that bond you developed with her all those years ago."

"Maybe a bit," Leslie said. "But I think she feels it too. I realize it's possible she just sees me as a refuge from the danger LeNoir presents, but she could as easily have asked Father if she could live with him. He has more room than we do anyway."

Christian chuckled, at which point the door opened in the corner and Mireille came out. "Perhaps there's little point in my investigating LeNoir any further," he said. "I expect Mr. Roarke will know all he needs to know about LeNoir, and he won't even need the internet to gather his information." They laughed softly, and Mireille skirted Leslie's chair and took her seat once more, just as Patrick and Antoinette came in with a rosebush.

"Oh, you found one," Leslie said, brightening. "That's beautiful."

Christian stared at it. "Aren't those the same roses we found that day on the beach?" he asked her. "The ones that can't be found anywhere else in the world?"

"So they are," Leslie realized. The bush was covered with small yellow roses, every petal on each blossom sporting a small magenta crescent. "That makes perfect sense. Something contributed by his children, connected with Fantasy Island, where he spent so much of his life. It's perfect, you two. Father can get the hotel gardener to plant it for you."

"We thought it might fit," Antoinette said, smiling for the first time that day. "The nursery owner told us that these rosebushes aren't even allowed off the island, and we had to explain why we wanted it. And when we told him, he took half off the price!"

"He must have known Papa," Patrick remarked.

"Yeah, he's been here quite a long time," Leslie said with a nod. "So there's someone else who can give you his impressions of Tattoo. Your father left quite a presence here." She snickered, a memory hitting her, and said, "Brother, I can still remember when I first came back here in 1990 after Teppo died. It took me a few days to figure out what to do with myself and to settle back into the rhythm of life on this island, and then Father was talking about getting hold of Julie to fill in the assistant's role that first weekend. That was when I came up with the idea of applying for the job. I wanted it so badly, I was scared to death that I'd blow the trial weekend Father agreed to. I kept thinking, how under the sun can I possibly fill Tattoo's shoes? And it gave me the idea to emulate Tattoo, try to do what he would've done. It must have worked. Father gave me the job and told me I'd done very well; I said something about maybe outdoing Lawrence, and Julie added that I might even outdo Tattoo. I told her that wasn't possible."

Her audience laughed; then Mireille asked, "Who was Lawrence?"

"Oh…he was your father's successor," Leslie said. "Lasted about the length of a school year. He had a distinctly different approach from Tattoo. Tattoo had been here long enough by the time I arrived on the island that there wasn't too much that fazed him anymore. But Lawrence was a whole 'nother story, as we used to say when I was a little kid. He tried to act blasé and keep that stereotypical British stiff upper lip, but it didn't always work."

"Hmm," said Christian, looking intrigued, "I think I might have you tell some stories on this Lawrence later on." He shot a glance at a few bars representing minimized windows at the bottom of his monitor screen. "Unfortunately for me, I really ought to get back to work. I have two programs I'm trying to write, and then there are two repair projects and three installations waiting for me. It must be all these American tourists on their working vacations." He snorted. "A pitiful oxymoron. What's the point of taking a vacation, if all you're going to do is work? You might as well stay home."

"Poor Christian," Leslie teased, reaching over and patting his arm. "Well, in that case, we'll all get out of your hair. See you at lunch?"

"I'll be there," Christian promised, and caught her long enough to steal a kiss before she left the shop with the Latignons.

It was at the midday meal that Roarke disclosed, "I've just had word that Solange and Monsieur LeNoir will be arriving on the two-o'clock charter tomorrow."

Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille looked at one another; the older two had grim looks, while Mireille looked out-and-out scared. Leslie reached out and patted the girl's shoulder. "Where are they staying, Father?" she asked.

"They'll have a room in Julie's bed-and-breakfast," Roarke replied. "However, I intend to speak with them before I allow them even to see the three of you, much less retreat to their room for freshening up." He glanced at a scowling Patrick and a pale-faced Antoinette in turn, and his tone softened. "Perhaps it will interest you to know that I met your mother myself, the weekend Tattoo and she first met and fell in love, and she struck me as a very intelligent young woman. She was grounded: she was willing to give up a dawning career in dance to remain with Tattoo and make a life with him, but he insisted that she have her chance to do what she had dreamed of for so long. Tattoo was very important in her life; thus, I find it extremely difficult to reconcile what you tell me about her now to the young woman I met all those years ago. In view of what you have said, I want the opportunity to speak with her myself. It should give me some indication of what may have changed so dramatically for her that she would keep company with someone like Monsieur LeNoir."

Patrick's expression eased then and he nodded. "I see, Mr. Roarke," he said. "If _Maman_ does reveal herself…will you tell us? We've never understood her relationship with that pond scum, and we want to know, too."

Roarke chuckled soundlessly once at his use of the slang. "I will do that, Patrick," he promised.

"Will we have to move into the B&B with them?" Antoinette wanted to know.

"No, you three may remain in the bungalow you now occupy," Roarke said. "That includes you, Mireille, lest you wonder. The room Julie set aside for Solange and LeNoir is large enough to accommodate only two." His tone made Christian and Leslie exchange a knowing glance: they had no doubt Roarke had specifically given Julie instructions to that end. "And if at all possible, I'll observe LeNoir myself."

Leslie smiled secretly at that. Roarke had a way of absorbing the most infinitesimal details about people, even those who went to great pains to try to conceal such things. He'd have Georges LeNoir's number soon enough.

§ § § -- December 23, 2004

It was so early in the morning that Leslie and the triplets had yet to arrive from home, but Roarke was up and sorting through fantasy requests, carefully reading letters. It wasn't even seven yet, so he was quite surprised when there came a knock on the inner-foyer door. "Yes?" he called out.

A moment later Mireille Latignon ventured into the room, her feet bare and her sandals dangling from one hand; she virtually tiptoed. "Hello, Mr. Roarke," she said softly.

"Good morning, Mireille, come in!" Roarke invited, smiling at her. "You're up quite early for someone who's on school vacation."

The merest ghost of a smile flashed across Mireille's face and she approached the desk, still moving cautiously, as if afraid of disturbing someone. "I know it's early," she said with a small tremor in her voice. "But I've been thinking a lot about this and I couldn't wait anymore to ask you…and I didn't want Patrick and Antoinette around when I did, because they'd only laugh at me."

"I see," said Roarke, sobering, seeing the anxiety and traces of fear in the girl's dark eyes. "Why don't you sit down. Would you like anything to drink?"

Mireille shook her head and carefully lowered herself into one of the leather chairs, soundlessly placing her sandals on the floor near her feet and then settling herself in the chair, as though stalling. Roarke waited patiently; he could sense a wave of strong emotion washing out of her, a volatile mix of hope, fear, need and even a little bit of loss. She was breathing a little quickly, and her entire body was taut with tension.

Finally Mireille said hesitantly, "Mr. Roarke…yesterday I asked Leslie if I could stay here on the island, and live with her and Prince Christian." Roarke's eyes widened a bit at that, but he made no comment, letting her continue. "She said I'd need a better reason than getting away from _Maman_ and Georges. But Mr. Roarke, it isn't fair. Patrick is on his own, and Antoinette is gone most of the time with her ballet troupe. I'm not old enough to get away like they are. They would never let Patrick keep me, I know." Mireille stopped to swallow, and Roarke saw desperation fill her eyes. "I guess I knew that _cousine_ would tell me no, but I thought if it worked, I wouldn't have to do this. Except it didn't, so now I'm coming to you."

Roarke leaned forward and studied her with compassion. "You know that if you ever had a true and pressing need, Mireille, you and your brother and sister would be the very first people in the entire world to whom I would grant asylum on my island."

Mireille nodded. "That's what _cousine_ said. Are you sure that I couldn't stay here?—because I know that awful Georges is going to do something to me if I have to go back to France with him and _Maman_. I told Leslie that he looks at me sometimes the same way he looks at Antoinette…and other times he looks at me as if he wants to kill me. He slaps me if I go to Patrick's flat, instead of going straight home from school. That's if _Maman_ doesn't see him. But I have to go to Patrick's flat, because I know Georges will either look at me or hit me. And _Maman_…I don't understand why she stays with him. Why would she let him steal from our trust funds, and look at Antoinette like that, and hit me?"

Roarke asked, "Doesn't she know he does all this?"

"N-no," Mireille said, "but we don't dare say anything, because I know she wouldn't believe us. We can't save _Maman_ from Georges ourselves. There's only one way." She sat up straight, cleared her throat, reached out and clutched the edge of his desk, and gave him a stare filled with every last ounce of her desperate appeal. "Please, Mr. Roarke, please, will you bring back Papa for us?"

Roarke stared at her, very much afraid he knew what she meant by that, but he asked her anyway. "Bring him back?"

"Yes," Mireille pleaded. "Make him alive again. If Papa comes back, _Maman_ would go back to him, and he would save us from that terrible Georges, and he could finish his painting in the museum." Roarke, speechless, watched Mireille's eyes glitter through tears. "I'll pay you my whole entire trust fund if you'll bring Papa back for us, please!"

Roarke closed his eyes and slowly sat back in his chair, swamped by a sense of wistful longing that nearly equaled the girl's. "Oh, Mireille, Mireille, if only you knew what you ask of me. If only you knew how dearly I wish I could do so." Regretfully he opened his eyes and saw that Mireille's tears had spilled over. "Had I the power to bring Tattoo back to us, I could fulfill the fantasies of millions the world over. You would have your father, Christian and Leslie would have their mothers, I would have my wife…" He paused for a moment and closed his eyes once more, breathing deeply a few times to regain control. When he looked at her again, she was crying openly, though without making a sound. "Sweetheart, it isn't that I won't do it—it's that I cannot. I don't have that power."

"But…all the stories Patrick and Antoinette said Papa told them…" Mireille began, her expression lost, pleading, bewildered. "They said he told them you can do anything!"

"Did they indeed?" Roarke said, very gently. "Did they tell you specifically that I had the ability to restore life to the dead?"

"No…no, but they said you could do anything," Mireille protested, her voice collapsing under the weight of her fright and unhappiness. "They s-said…"

Roarke arose and rounded the desk, drawing the sobbing girl out of the chair and hugging her close. "They were young when your father told them those stories, I suspect," he said softly, smoothing her hair. "Perhaps they don't remember them as clearly as they believe they do. If you ask Leslie, she will tell you how dearly I wished, more than all else in the world, that I could bring my late wife back to life. I told your father himself that I would have given all that I owned, all that I was. I would still do so." He stepped back just enough to lift Mireille's chin with a thumb and forefinger. "I can't tell you how many times throughout my life I wished for that power. But we all have wishes, my dear Mireille, and life rarely sees fit to grant them."

"That's why…why you started to grant fantasies?" Mireille managed.

Roarke nodded. "I have always known my limitations, but I also knew that my life would be best served by using those powers I do possess to bring a little extra happiness into the lives of others. Oh, yes, I can do many things, indeed—but I have no ability to give life to the deceased, nor even to prevent an imminent death. My wife, Helena, died of a brain tumor. Medical science could do nothing, and neither could I. I am no doctor, and I have no ability that a doctor does not also have. And though sometimes I am able to see what lies in the future—sometimes, mind you—I cannot change nor prevent that future. What I can do is bring some happiness into people's lives, and help them in any way I possibly can, when conventional means fail. You see?"

Mireille stared up at him, an odd look on her face. Though she looked primarily like her mother, he could see Tattoo in her, and it made him miss his old friend again, in a very immediate way that he hadn't experienced in a long time. "I think I can see," she said, her voice still thick, laden with uncertainty but tinged with cautious hope. _"Cousine_ says you'll know about Georges. She said you can find out what's happening."

"And so I will," Roarke told her, smiling. "You and Patrick and Antoinette are the children of the dearest friend I have ever had. I could refuse you nothing that's in my power to give you—no more so than I could refuse my own daughter, son-in-law or grandchildren. Tattoo would expect no less of me than to do all that was within my ability to help you, and I won't let you—or him—down, that I can promise you."

At last Mireille smiled—a thin, watery smile to be sure, but a smile nevertheless. "I have faith in you, Mr. Roarke," she said. "Even _Maman_ said that Papa always remembered you as his best friend ever. So I'm going to trust you to help us." She threw her arms around him, squeezed swiftly, then stuck her feet into her sandals. _"Merci beaucoup,_ Mr. Roarke!" With that, she ran out, and Roarke watched her for a moment, then returned to his chair; but for some time he simply sat there, remembering his old friend.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- December 23, 2004

Christian, who considered Christmas Eve a holiday just as much as Christmas Day itself, had closed his office at noon and wished his employees a merry Christmas; they would all be off till the following Monday. So he was at the main house when Roarke noted the time and asked Leslie to meet the two-o'clock charter. "As I mentioned yesterday," he told her, "I want you to bring Solange and LeNoir directly here. The attendants can take care of their luggage, but you must impress upon them that I wish to see them immediately."

Christian frowned as his wife nodded understanding, and stood up. "I think I'd better go along with you, my Rose," he said. "I've heard enough from the children about this LeNoir that I don't like the thought of you going alone."

Roarke smiled. "Perhaps that's wise," he said. "More than once I've seen people grow meek in the presence of His Royal Highness, Prince Christian. It may just work on Georges LeNoir as well."

Christian laughed, slipping an arm around a grinning Leslie. "I think it helps that I actually am a prince again." At their raised brows, he quantified, "If no one else, it helps me, psychologically, to realize that being a bona-fide prince, with my full rank and title restored, is enough to intimidate a lot of people." Amid the laughter, he gave Leslie a quick squeeze. "Well, let's go find out precisely what you and your father are facing here."

She took the wheel and drove to the plane dock; neither spoke on the way, feeling overly alert. Christian took Leslie's hand when they got out, and in silence they strolled to the dock, in time to see the plane taxi around a small spit of land and into the protected lagoon. A frothy wake washed ashore behind the pontoon craft, ricocheting and making it bob up and down as it drifted closer to the dock. Within ten minutes the plane had been moored and the hatch thrown open from inside.

"There's Solange," Leslie said softly, recognizing the blonde woman instantly. She still had the same girlish features, though now they seemed strangely pinched and drawn with worry. She heard Christian make a small noise of acknowledgement beside her, and they watched Solange move ahead a few steps—with a slight limp, Leslie realized—before turning back to face the hatch, where a man was just emerging.

"Was she hurt?" Christian asked, obviously having noticed the limp too.

"I don't know…the kids didn't say," Leslie said. Again Christian made a noise, this one a _hmm_ of contemplation, and fell silent beside her. His hold on her hand tightened then, and she shifted her focus to the man behind Solange. The tall, lank man with frizzy light-brown hair and a pencil-thin mustache caught up with Solange and put his hand in hers; Solange smiled at him, and together they started down the ramp.

Solange saw them first and brightened, easing her pinched look. "Leslie, hi," she called and tugged the frizzy-haired man along with her. She let go only long enough to hug Leslie, who felt Christian's hand slide from hers only reluctantly. "It's good to see you again…wow, you look wonderful! And you must be Prince Christian—I'm glad to meet you, Your Highness." She curtsied, favoring her right leg; Christian smiled and nodded back. Solange turned to the man beside her and added, "And this is my fiancé, Georges LeNoir."

At the last second Leslie remembered her own status as a princess, something that usually escaped her; she didn't need to remember the rank she'd acquired upon marrying Christian unless they were in Lilla Jordsö. She held back the automatic greeting till LeNoir had bowed to her and Christian. Christian nodded back, cool and formal; Leslie said only, "Monsieur," withholding anything else.

"It was a very long flight," LeNoir remarked in a fairly heavy French accent, not as thick as Tattoo's had been, but enough that it made her wonder how good his English really was. "We will go to our room, of course."

"Actually," Leslie said, "my father would like to see you—both of you, right away. That's why we came here. I'll drive you to the main house."

LeNoir gave her a sharp look. "Solange is very tired. Cannot it wait?"

Christian raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to know about Solange's children?" he asked a little pointedly. "Mr. Roarke has information about them."

LeNoir opened his mouth, then seemed to remember Christian's royal status and visibly checked himself. "Yes, perhaps this is a good thing, Your Highness. But we must be careful of Solange. She is fragile." So saying, he took Solange's hand and started for the car that awaited them. Christian scowled, glanced at Leslie, then took her hand and walked briskly along, passing LeNoir and Solange and taking the wheel himself this time.

"Where are the kids?" Solange asked on the way to the main house.

"They're in one of the bungalows," Leslie said, turning in her seat to address Solange. "They're all fine, they've been touring the island and just relaxing a bit."

LeNoir sniffed out something in French and added, "The children…they run away from home, and come here just to have a good time! Little fools!" Solange patted his hand and he subsided into a round of grumbling in French. Leslie noticed the drawn, anxious look had returned to Solange's features, but didn't comment.

Then Solange remarked conversationally, "So I guess you're a princess, Leslie. What's it like to be royalty? It must have been something of a culture shock for you."

Leslie grinned. "Well, it could've been worse. Christian's not the stereotypical stuffy royal. If he had been, I never would've fallen in love with him."

Christian eyed her sidelong and remarked, "You really have a flirty way with compliments, my Leslie Rose." They all laughed, except for LeNoir, who looked as if he thought himself above such puerile humor—at least till Christian caught his eye in the mirror, and then the Frenchman let out a nasal "heh heh" that elicited a strange face from Christian, out of sight of anyone but Leslie.

In the study Roarke arose when Christian, Leslie, Solange and LeNoir came in. He smiled at his daughter and son-in-law, then watched Solange and LeNoir, clearly taking in everything—particularly Solange's limp and the proprietary way LeNoir held her arm. They settled in the leather chairs in front of Roarke's desk, while Christian and Leslie made themselves comfortable on the loveseat near the stairs. Roarke resumed his chair, asked if the new arrivals would like beverages, and nodded when they declined. "I hope your journey was pleasant," he said.

"It was difficult for Solange," LeNoir said in his somewhat labored English. "She is no longer in the best health, and these airplane trips cannot be so good for her. Those children, such disobedient little fools they are, to run away so." He turned to Solange then and asked in a solicitous voice, "Have you taken your pain pill today, _mon coeur?_ You must not forget, you need to keep up your strength."

Solange nodded, cast him a grateful look and began to rummage in an overloaded clutch bag. Leslie brought her a glass of water from the crystal pitcher on the tea table, and Solange turned the same grateful smile on her; she returned it, then retreated to sit beside Christian again. Before anyone could speak, however, there was the sound of a baby beginning to fret upstairs. Roarke heard it as well as Christian and Leslie did, and nodded at his daughter, who arose and beckoned at her husband. Without a word he followed her up.

In her old room, Leslie lifted a still-drowsy Susanna out of her bassinet. "She needs changing," she murmured, prompting Christian to spread a protective plastic sheet on the bedspread, then retrieve the triplets' diaper bag.

"I don't like the way Solange looks," Christian said.

"Neither do I," Leslie agreed immediately, glancing at him as she started to remove Susanna's sunsuit. "And it isn't just that perpetually anxious expression she has. She looks older than she did even the last time I saw her. Admittedly that was eleven years ago, but to my eyes, she's aged a lot more than eleven years."

Christian nodded. "Yes, I think she seems older than she should. I'd like to know where that limp came from. Why didn't the children mention it? Do you suppose they're so accustomed to it that they don't see it any longer?"

"That would suggest she's had it for a long time," Leslie mused, removing Susanna's old diaper, folding it carefully and safety-pinning it shut. "On the other hand, if the limp is the reason she has to take pain pills, it might be recent."

"Perhaps not that recent," Christian said, extracting baby wipes and powder from the bag for her. Susanna kicked a little and he grinned briefly at his baby daughter. "Don't like it, Susanna _lilla?_ Believe me, you'll like a dirty diaper even less." He sighed, watching the baby yawn. "I don't know, my Rose…I suppose all we can do is wait to see what Mr. Roarke finds out. I hope he can find a way to get those two apart. I suspect otherwise he won't learn much from Solange—and LeNoir strikes me as a close-mouthed type who wants to convince the rest of us that he's in charge."

Downstairs LeNoir had watched Solange take the pill; Roarke, looking on, continued to take in every movement, every detail. When he did speak, he deliberately addressed Solange: "You are all right, Ms. Latignon?"

LeNoir answered again. "As I think you can see, _m'sieur_ Roarke, she is not all right. She is in pain. Those beastly long flights have made it worse. And all for the sake of those ungrateful children…"

Pointedly Roarke said, "Monsieur LeNoir, Ms. Latignon may be in pain, but I don't believe it prevents her from speaking."

Solange swallowed a little more water and smiled at Roarke in a curiously sheepish manner. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, Georges gets a little cranky when he's tired." That got her a sharp look from LeNoir, but she turned to him anyway. _"Mon chou,_ you did want to go to our room and rest, didn't you?"

"You need it far more than I," LeNoir said. "You will come with me."

Roarke put in, "Perhaps that's wise. If I had known you were in pain, Ms. Latignon, I would not have insisted that you come here, but I felt it necessary. Monsieur, if you prefer to retire, you are more than welcome to do so."

"So you are a sensible man," LeNoir said, eyeing Roarke distrustfully. Roarke had the sense that the man was looking down his nose at him, even though he held his head level. "I will take Solange with me, and we will speak with you at a better time." He arose and began to assist Solange onto her feet.

"Ms. Latignon, do you not even wish to know how your children are faring?" Roarke inquired. Though he addressed Solange, he was looking at LeNoir, and there was a faint but unmistakably steely edge to his voice.

Solange blinked, and a guilty look flitted over her face. She hesitated. "Georges, I'd like to stay a little longer," she said. "You go ahead, I'll be along soon."

LeNoir stared at her, as if she had never before dared assert her will in front of him. Roarke wondered if she ever really had. Finally the Frenchman muttered, "Oh, very well. But do not keep her long, Roarke, she is weary and painful." Leaving his slightly fractured English hanging there behind him, he strode out.

Solange let out a long, heavy sigh and sank back into the chair LeNoir had tugged her out of. "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke…"

"He's extremely attentive," Roarke said, choosing the adjective with care.

"Oh yes, he's very attentive," Solange agreed with an odd, misty smile after the departed LeNoir. "Sometimes too much so. But he's willing to take care of me." She focused on Roarke. "How are the kids, really? Are they all right?"

"They're well," Roarke said, "although I must say they have told me a few tales I find rather alarming. If you'll forgive my bluntness, Ms. Latignon, I daresay you do not look at all well, and they are quite worried about you."

Solange frowned a little. "Are they really? I'm not so sure. Patrick's grown very cold to me, and he's made some decisions and taken some actions I really don't approve of. Antoinette finds every excuse in the book not to come home when her ballet troupe isn't on the road…and Mireille's become a true problem child. And all this has come about since I met Georges." She tipped her head and looked pleadingly at Roarke. "I know Antoinette and Patrick miss Tattoo—I do too, every day. But Georges is such a comfort to me, and I do wish they'd realize I have a right to go on with my life, too."

"That may be so," Roarke said, "but they have voiced certain concerns to me in regard to Monsieur LeNoir, and those concerns were weighty enough that I felt it wiser to take them seriously. One of their greatest fears is that you are trying to erase the memory of their father. They have told me that you've put in storage those paintings he created for your family's use, that you are preparing to sell the home you and Tattoo shared, and that you had plans to destroy his papers."

"Tattoo left behind a lot of material, Mr. Roarke," Solange protested a little weakly. "It was Georges' suggestion…"

"There are other ways to handle what Tattoo left behind without destroying it," Roarke said kindly. "In fact, Christian suggested to Patrick that he turn Tattoo's papers over to a reputable archiving firm. And it may interest you to know that, in the matter of the paintings that your children informed me had been removed from the walls of your home, they are here on the island. Leslie picked them up late Sunday and brought them back here to my house, and I have stored them safely away for the moment."

Solange stared at him. "They're here? What are they doing here?"

"Patrick shipped them," Roarke replied. "For him to go to such lengths suggests to me that they are very worried, and have been driven by that worry to take drastic steps to intervene." He took in Solange's overwhelmed expression and added more gently, "For your children's sake, Ms. Latignon, I decided to investigate. I believe their worry for you and for their father's legacy is very real. And for the sake of honesty and fairness, I must also tell you that Patrick is very suspicious of Monsieur LeNoir, and that both Mireille and Antoinette are frightened of him."

"But…why? Georges wants only to take care of me," said Solange.

"Of you, perhaps," Roarke said, "but as I understand it, it's a much different story where your children are concerned." He paused a moment while Solange took another sip from her water glass, then asked, "If you don't mind, Ms. Latignon, please, tell me exactly how you became involved with Monsieur LeNoir."

Solange looked warily at him for a moment, then said in a guarded tone, "Mr. Roarke, I've received enough opposition from my children in regard to Georges, and my parents have voiced some objections as well—all the way from their home in Barbados, I might add. I've grown more than a little tired of hearing all the negativity."

"Perhaps so," Roarke said, "but I am not making any statements against Monsieur LeNoir. I merely wish to know more about him and how you met him, and precisely what role he plays in your life."

He watched Solange in silence while she went on staring at him, as if trying to make a decision. Roarke could remember overhearing Leslie tell one or another of her friends—even Christian once—that in her eyes, he had some quality about him that seemed to compel others to trust him. Roarke himself supposed it must be something intrinsic; whatever it might be, he was grateful for it. Never yet had it failed him, and at this moment he wanted it to have the proper effect on Solange, almost more than anyone else he had ever tried to help in his very long career as host of Fantasy Island.

At last Solange sagged in her chair and closed her eyes, shaking her head a little. "I keep remembering the praise Tattoo heaped on you," she murmured, her voice very weary. "He never spoke of you with anything but the utmost affection and gratitude. I think he would've trusted you with his whole life, even before he'd have trusted his own mother. All right." She opened her eyes and focused on him. "You might be aware that once my dancing career was launched here, I gained a certain amount of fame, especially in France. Tattoo's and my wedding was big news there. There was a wonderful period during which I could almost write my own ticket. When Patrick and Antoinette were old enough, I went back to dancing part-time. I planned to do it again after Mireille was a toddler and the other two were old enough to be able to watch her after school...but then Tattoo got sick and finally died, and I dared not leave my children alone.

"I was able to keep our home and Tattoo's gallery because I had some very good people helping me, people Tattoo had personally chosen." Behind her Roarke saw Christian and Leslie quietly descending the stairs, but didn't move his gaze from Solange. He knew his daughter and son-in-law would remain unobtrusively in the background. Solange went on, "I still had offers from dance companies, not just in France but around western Europe. I knew Tattoo had hoped that he could leave us enough money to live on till at least Patrick was old enough to go out on his own, but I grew up in a lower-middle-class family and I've always had some fear about not having enough. So I was very careful with what we had, made sure I knew what sort of income Tattoo's gallery was bringing in, and supplemented it in the summer by going out on tours with dance troupes. My parents still lived in France at the time, and they came and stayed with the children while I was gone.

"Then my parents retired to Barbados in 2002 and there was no one I could leave the children with. They left at the end of that summer when the children went back to school, and I spent that school year trying to think of a way to allow the children to stay home while I was dancing, the next summer. But no one could help me, and I made the decision at last to take them with me." She sighed. "They weren't happy with it. Patrick was almost eighteen and thought that made him old enough to take care of his sisters while I was gone, but I didn't like it one bit and insisted that they all come along.

"And then I was rehearsing one afternoon in mid-June last year—we'd been on the road only two weeks—and a trap-door mechanism gave way on the stage underneath me. I broke my leg pretty badly when I fell. All the doctors I saw took one look at it and told me it was very likely that my dancing career was finished. They were right, but I didn't want to accept it. I needed to dance—not just to earn money, but also because I've always been a dancer, in my heart and my soul." Roarke nodded, and she continued, "So when my leg was healed, in September, I tried to dance again and the leg collapsed under me. My doctor said that if I had waited longer, perhaps I'd have had a chance to resume my career, but my impatience finished it for good. The bone wasn't strong enough to do what dance requires of it, and I fractured it again in the same place it had been broken in June. I've walked with a limp ever since then, and sometimes it still hurts.

"Since I'm known in France, the news of the end of my career was all over the papers. I spent a long time convalescing. Patrick had taken a summer job to help make ends meet. After my second injury, he began to oversee the art gallery, and being Tattoo's son, he has a good eye for true art. So the staff there took him on, and he's doing well for himself. I don't have to worry about either him or Antoinette, not since she was accepted into the ballet troupe. They're going to have good lives. But I still have Mireille, and I need to provide for her somehow."

Roarke frowned. "Excuse me, Ms. Latignon. But doesn't Tattoo's gallery bring in enough income that you shouldn't need to worry about whether you can dance?"

"It's just my innate worries about money, I suppose," Solange said. "And in any case, after I broke my leg, there were medical bills. They didn't financially destroy us at least. My mother is American—that's why I speak English and French at the same fluency—and when her father was laid low with lung cancer when she was a girl, her family went bankrupt in the face of the staggering hospital bills. It doesn't work that way in Europe, but there were still some things I needed that I had to pay my own money for. And of course, there were taxes, and upkeep on the house, and Mireille's school supplies and field trips.

"I met Georges in the city one day when Patrick took me in for another checkup with my doctor. He was in the waiting room as well, and we struck up a conversation. One thing led to another, and we began to see each other, and he was such a comfort, Mr. Roarke. He was always concerned over me. I finally admitted my worries about money, and he told me he would be happy to help. Not so long ago he'd inherited from an uncle who was a baron, and he said he would take care of me and make sure I didn't have to think about expenses. It was such a relief, and he's so kind and tender…I'd thought no one else could be like that, after those wonderful days I had with Tattoo."

"I see," said Roarke in a neutral tone. "Ms. Latignon, didn't you have the man investigated at all? You've mentioned that you are well-known around France, and as I recall, so was Tattoo. People with substantial means must always be on diligent guard against those who present altruistic motives, but have their eye on the money and the life they can live with it. Did you truly trust Monsieur LeNoir from the beginning?"

"He knew about that," said Solange. "He gave me the names of people he knew whom I could contact, to find out about his character. Right down to a man, they all said he was the warmest person they had ever known. They all confirmed his inheritance from his uncle, and one of them even presented me with a statement from a disinterested third party that Georges was honest, aboveboard and forthcoming."

Roarke let his surprise show. "I see. So you feel that he is forthright in all his dealings, and that he can be trusted with your children?"

"Of course! He promised to take care of my children too, and I could see the sincerity in him. So I arranged to give him access to our accounts."

"Including the trust funds that Tattoo created for the children," Roarke said.

"Well, yes. Patrick will get full control over his trust fund next September, but till then it's in good hands, and so are the girls' funds…"

Roarke cleared his throat. "I am afraid the children are of another mind. I assume you know that Patrick is able to check on the amount in his and his sisters' funds via computer." Solange nodded, and he added, "He has been keeping a sharp eye on the accounts, Ms. Latignon, and several days ago he told me that someone had withdrawn money from them—all three of them, approximately one hundred euros from each."

Solange's eyes narrowed in confusion. "But that can't be right. The children can't touch that money till they're 21, and neither Georges nor I would have a reason to."

"So Patrick tells me," Roarke said, "yet he insists that the money is missing."

"Well, it must be a bank error," Solange said firmly. "Georges knows Tattoo put that money away especially for the children, and he wouldn't do that to them." She lifted a hand and massaged her forehead, wincing with what looked like pain.

"Are you all right, Ms. Latignon?" Roarke asked in concern.

"I…just need to rest," Solange murmured. "Please, Mr. Roarke, if you don't mind…"

Roarke studied her intensely for about ten seconds, then nodded. "Very well, Ms. Latignon. Do you wish to see your children before you go?"

Solange shook her head. "I need to rest…get a little strength back…" She struggled to get out of her chair, and Christian instantly arose and crossed the room to lend assistance, earning himself an exhausted smile from Solange. Just as she gained her feet, she dropped her clutch, which exploded open and spewed odds and ends all over the floor. "Oh no!"

Leslie and Roarke had both already gotten to their feet while Christian was helping Solange onto hers, and Roarke hastened around the desk while Leslie began to gather up items that had spilled from the purse. Christian turned Solange over to Roarke and helped, scooping up a few things at a time and dropping them into the bag that Leslie had retrieved. "Thank you, both of you," Roarke said, helping Solange towards the foyer.

"I appreciate it, Leslie," Solange added, her voice sounding a bit muzzy. Leslie cast a sharp glance in her direction, a spurt of alarm shooting through her; Solange hadn't even looked up, never mind meeting her gaze, and she sounded as though she were about to fall asleep, literally on her feet. _A drug?_ she wondered, and had started to climb back to a standing position when she spied a small dark-orange prescription bottle under a chair where it had rolled. Silently she poked Christian and pointed at it; he nodded and went after it, while Leslie forced the overpacked clutch shut and brought it to Solange.

A driver was waiting out front for Solange, and Roarke saw to it that she was seated comfortably in the jeep. Leslie gave her the clutch, and Solange smiled feebly in thanks. The driver pulled away, leaving Roarke and Leslie in the lane watching the jeep go. When the dust had settled a little, Leslie approached Roarke and said, "Father, I don't like the way she looks at all. Christian mentioned it too. Would she be like that from a leg injury? She was walking fine when she and LeNoir came off the plane. I mean…she looked a little tired, like anyone would be after such a long trip, but she wasn't like that—half knocked out. Didn't LeNoir make her swallow a 'pain pill' in the study?"

"He did indeed," Roarke said heavily. "I too have a sense of foreboding about this, Leslie, and I think your instincts are correct. Unfortunately, I don't know what more we can do at the moment."

"Actually, Christian picked up a prescription bottle that rolled under one of the chairs," Leslie said. "I closed up Solange's purse and gave it back to her without his putting it back in there. I just had a weird feeling."

Roarke's look was piercing, just for a moment; then he nodded once. "Good thinking, Leslie. Come, let's get a look at that bottle."


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- December 23, 2004

In the study Christian was minutely examining the label on the bottle, frowning at it. He looked up when Roarke and Leslie came back in. "I can't read this," he said, "it's in French. I recognize only Solange's name on the label. But the medication inside looks very strange to me. I realize not all pills are white, but these are of a color I've never seen on pills before." He handed the bottle to Roarke, who gave the label a cursory look and then removed the top, shaking a few of the pills into one palm.

"How weird," Leslie said, a little repulsed. "They're gray."

"Almost black," Christian agreed.

Roarke stared fixedly at the pills in his palm, handed the bottle back to Christian and overturned one of the pills once or twice. It was plain, with no markings on either side. "I have a very bad feeling about this," he said as if to himself. He sniffed at them a few times, and his dark eyes seemed to grow even darker. He looked up abruptly. "Christian, if you will, please run a search connecting LeNoir's name with amakarna."

He and Leslie saw Christian's jaw clench briefly before the prince gave a short nod and went to the computer to carry out the request. Leslie stared at her father in disbelief. "Are you saying there's amakarna in those tablets?"

Roarke nodded. "I am afraid so," he said. "It would account for the unusual color, and I can detect a particular sweet odor characteristic of the spice."

Christian, having begun the internet search, twisted in the chair to address Roarke. "This raises a whole raft of questions. Where would LeNoir get access to amakarna, unless he knows that damnable LiSciola? Why would he give it to Solange? And even more, why hasn't it killed her outright? It quite nearly did me!"

Roarke crossed the room to him and glanced at the computer screen before laying a hand on the prince's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Christian. I can't answer the first two questions immediately; but there are two possible solutions for your third. Either amakarna is only one of a number of ingredients in these tablets—which is the likely case no matter the scenario—or Solange is one of those rare terrestrial humans who have a tolerance for the spice. You were given pure amakarna, Christian, which, combined with your lack of tolerance, contributed to your nearly fatal episode." He took a closer look at the computer monitor while Christian and Leslie absorbed his words. "Aha. Christian, please click on the third link in the list."

Christian squinted at it, still a little impatient and annoyed, and Leslie bent down to kiss the top of his head while he clicked on the link Roarke had indicated. "I'm sorry, my Rose," he said with a quick smile for her while the site came up. "You know what happens to me when I hear the word 'amakarna'."

"Oh yes," Leslie said with a grin, and he chuckled softly, shook his head and returned his attention to the computer.

"There's a good bit more information on amakarna now than there was when I first learned Arnulf and his daughters were using the spice," Christian observed. "The only other time I ever did a search, it was frustrating to note that the one really good link I got dealt almost exclusively with black lightning."

"The drug has nearly disappeared from existence," Roarke noted. "Once Count LiSciola's older daughter, Paola, died, its production dropped off steeply, almost to the point of null distribution. It's entirely possible that the count has continued producing it to some extent, for occasionally I hear of it from one or another source. Ah—look here." He pointed to a paragraph of text on the screen, and both Christian and Leslie leaned forward to see it better. "A small French pharmaceuticals company was cited this summer for importing amakarna without the proper licenses from the national government. Since you two were married and new information came to light about the spice, regulations have been enacted in a great many countries—mostly European and North American, along with Japan, Australia and New Zealand. It's created such an ocean of red tape that those who do import it tend to do so illegally. That appears to have been the case with this pharmaceuticals company. It was forced to cease operations and destroy its entire stock of amakarna."

"And look—it was owned by a family named LeNoir!" Leslie exclaimed, reading ahead of him. "If this leech Solange is being conned by does belong to this family, he could be right about having money, anyway. He just lied about where it came from."

"If he has money, my Rose," Christian argued, "then why would he find it necessary to take more of it from the children's trust funds?"

Roarke said, "There could be several reasons. The shutdown occurred some twenty months ago, as you'll notice, and whatever fortune the family may have had is quite likely to have been eroded by such things as legal fees and cleanup costs. Since that time, unless the LeNoirs found, or already had, an alternate source of income, the fortune would have been significantly depleted by the aforementioned expenses and the simple cost of living. And then, of course, there is always mere greed. For some people that's reason enough."

"True," Christian muttered. "I may be able to narrow it down to mentions of anyone in the family named Georges. One moment…" He typed and entered a few things, then sat back and watched along with Roarke and Leslie while several small yellow boxes popped up within the text. "Of course, we don't know if this is Solange's would-be husband, but I'd say there's a substantial chance of it, now that we've found those strange pills."

"You said they were told to destroy their full stock of amakarna," said Leslie. "Why would LeNoir have pills now that contain amakarna? Do you think he secreted some and held it back?"

"That's possible," said Roarke, "and it's also possible that the LeNoirs interpreted the order somewhat loosely. That is, they decided that they were ordered to destroy the pure amakarna, but not the medicines that contained it. Amakarna has a long shelf life, so that even if the company was no longer manufacturing medications containing it, they could very well have stored away the stock they had at the time the court order was issued." He paused for a moment, then requested, "If you would, Christian, please find out what French pharmaceuticals manufacturers are legally allowed to import amakarna."

Christian typed in another search and watched three or four links pop up. He murmured something to himself in _jordiska_, clicked on one of them and scanned the text that came up. "Only two as of earlier this month," he said. "Both of them are located in Paris, whereas I recall seeing that the LeNoirs' company had its headquarters in Rouen."

Roarke nodded, silent for the moment. Leslie picked up the prescription bottle that Christian had set aside, peering at the label; as Christian had said, it was in French, but she did notice Solange's name on it. "Father," she said, "this looks like a legitimate prescription label. Would a pharmaceuticals company have the equipment needed to make something like this look legal?"

"No, that's a pharmacist's domain," Roarke told her. "The companies only manufacture the medicines; they do not prescribe them, nor do they have the authority to do so. It's my guess that LeNoir simply appropriated an old prescription bottle of Solange's and replaced whatever medication may have been left in it with these pills."

"So what Solange thinks are pain pills may well be no such thing," said Christian.

"Indeed," Roarke agreed, taking the bottle from Leslie and slipping the pills back into it. "Leslie, please go into town and give these to the pharmacist there, and ask her to find out what is in these pills, if she possibly can. She is familiar with amakarna, and quite a few of the substances I require for use in my business are available only through her. She will know what else the tablets are made of."

Christian pushed off with his foot so that the computer chair swiveled around, and asked, "If we don't give these back to Solange, won't she suffer some sort of withdrawal, as with black lightning?"

"Not necessarily," Roarke said. "In those who have the perfect balance of tolerance, the spice will pass from the system normally without side effects and without creating a dependence. I don't know if Solange is one of those fortunate ones."

"Is there a way to find out?" Leslie asked.

"Only a detailed blood-sample analysis will reveal the factor that proves such tolerance," said Roarke. "However, if she does have some manner of reaction after a certain length of time, I have ways of counteracting it. At this point I want merely to know how much amakarna those pills contain. Go ahead and make the run into town, Leslie."

Leslie dropped off the bottle at the pharmacy, then acted on an idea and drove over to the Latignon children's bungalow. They were all there, and when Antoinette let Leslie in, they bombarded her with questions. She had to raise her hands to quiet them, and when they finally subsided, she looked a little sternly at them. "Yes, we saw your mother, and Georges too," she said. "Why didn't you tell us Solange was injured the last summer she tried to go on tour?"

Patrick and Antoinette turned bright red and looked guiltily at each other. After a moment Patrick reluctantly admitted, "We were so upset with _Maman_, we…we focused only on her involvement with Georges, and what she was doing with Papa's things…and we just forgot to mention it. I know it sounds ridiculous, but…"

"It does sound ridiculous," Leslie agreed. "I guess I can understand your being upset with her, but not to the point that you'd forget something so pivotal."

"We've grown used to it," Antoinette said weakly. "It happened a year and a half ago, and after her second fracture and the doctor's announcement that she would never dance anymore, we knew it would be a factor in _Maman's_ life forever. We're so accustomed to it by now, we forgot you didn't know about it."

Leslie thought about that for a moment or two, studied their faces, and sighed. Their anxiety was genuine, and they were still young. "Okay, okay," she said. "We'll let that go. Now let me ask you something else. How long after Solange's injury did she meet LeNoir?"

"Only this past August," said Patrick, "not long before my birthday. I took her to her doctor, and he was there, and recognized her from her dance career. It was disgusting the way he got her to put her full trust in him so quickly."

Leslie made a small acknowledging noise and frowned to herself, then asked, "Do you happen to know what kind of pills she's been taking? Is it just pain medication, or something else? And who refills her prescriptions for her?"

Patrick and Antoinette looked blank, but Mireille spoke up, "It was always just pills for her pain, _cousine_. The doctor told her to take them only when she really, really needed them. We would go in together usually, _Maman_ and I, to get more…till after Georges came. And then she would ask him to do it."

"Why?" Leslie wanted to know.

"His family has a well-known pharmaceutical company," said Patrick with a shrug. "I think they supply _Maman's_ doctor, as a matter of fact."

"Not anymore," Leslie said, scowling. "They were shut down several months ago for importing amakarna without the proper licenses. And if your mother's been allowing him to handle prescription refills, that just makes it all the easier for him to substitute something else for the legitimate medication. Do you ever see her after she's taken one of these so-called pain pills?"

"I do," said Mireille. "It used to help her. Now it makes her really sleepy. It's why I have to see Georges so much…_Maman's_ leg hurts her more than it used to do, and she takes those pills more than usual, and they always make her go to sleep. So of course Georges is there when I come back from school…"

Leslie nodded. "I see," she said. "Well, we're having those pills analyzed, and I have a sneaking feeling the main ingredient will turn out to be amakarna. And not only that, he's fed your mother a huge pack of lies. He claims to have an uncle, a baron supposedly, from whom he inherited a lot of money. As far as we can figure out, he isn't related to any nobility at all. Father and Christian are doing some more research, but I expect we're going to be able to build a case against the guy solely for giving your mother amakarna."

"We read a little bit about it when you and Prince Christian were married," said Patrick. "What exactly is this stuff?"

"Come back to the main house with me," Leslie said, "and I'll tell you on the way." She led the Latignons out and explained the basics about the spice, adding, "Father knows more than I do, but evidently the spice acts differently in every person who takes it. So that means it's totally unpredictable as to what it does to a certain person."

"Oh, no," groaned Antoinette. "We never knew Georges was doing that to _Maman_. If we had…well, maybe we wouldn't have been so hard on her."

Leslie glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Well, you can't change that now, but I know what you can do. You can have a good long talk with your mother—without LeNoir around, I might add. Before you do, though, I expect Father will want to gather evidence against LeNoir first, starting with these amakarna pills he's giving your mother."

§ § § -- December 24, 2004

Leslie was awakened by the jostling of the mattress and opened her eyes to see Christian slipping out of bed and venturing over to the window. He pushed aside the curtain, gazed out for a moment or two, then shrugged, mumbled something in his own tongue and turned away, letting the curtain fall.

"What was that all about?" Leslie murmured in sleepy amusement.

Christian stopped, looked at her in surprise, then laughed at himself and climbed back into bed beside her. "It has to be a lifetime of Scandinavian Christmases. Every year I get out of bed and half expect to see snow on the ground when I look out the window, and every year I don't see it. I spent enough Christmas Eves and Christmas Days watching huge storms rolling in off the North Sea that it still seems a little odd to me to see it so warm and tranquil here."

Leslie grinned. "I get it. Sometimes I get nostalgic for a good old-fashioned white Christmas myself, but at this latitude them's the breaks." They snuggled together and smiled at each other. "How's the weather look?"

"Like its usual sunny, tropical self," Christian replied, his voice half lost in her hair as he began to nuzzle her. "The sun hasn't risen yet, though, so…" He lifted his head and kissed her, and in seconds they'd sunk into a world of their own.

They had enough time to make love at a fairly leisurely pace, to enjoy each other and savor their moments together, before their light doze in the aftermath was broken by the call of a baby. They looked at each other and grinned, and Christian commented, "It must be breakfast time." He lifted his head again and cast a quick glance at the clock. "They're doing a little better…it's almost six."

Laughing softly, Leslie sat up and smoothed his hair before sliding out of bed long enough to grab a few cloths for them to use in burping babies. Ingrid brought Susanna in, and Christian and Leslie talked to their baby for a minute or two, making her giggle and coo, while the young servant toted in Tobias and then Karina. Once she came back with a bottle for Tobias, who had it this time around, they started feeding the babies, sitting in bed feeling a little lazy and a lot contented, with each other and with their family.

"So," Christian mused, "what's on today's agenda?"

"With luck, finding out what those pills actually contain," Leslie said, "and then Father pressing charges against Georges. I told Patrick and Antoinette and Mireille yesterday that just his having possession of anything containing amakarna is enough to arrest him. I think they'd like to give him what-for about stealing money from their trust funds, but that isn't as easy to prove."

"I'm not sure it matters," Christian remarked. "If the amakarna alone is enough to put him away, then there's little point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. I think the biggest problem will be convincing Solange he's looking out for his own interests, not hers."

They brought the triplets to the main house around nine or so, and the adults had breakfast with the triplets watching drowsily from their stroller. "I've found out," Roarke said in the middle of the meal, "what we suspected. Those pills do indeed contain amakarna, and at quite a high concentration. That lends a higher likelihood to my suspicion that Solange is one of the few who can tolerate the spice with no ill effects. Unfortunately, it seems to have a soporific effect on her, perhaps to the point of confusion. LeNoir must have found some way to infiltrate the pills into her supply of legitimate pain medication from an early point in their relationship."

"That would explain her sudden and peculiar trust in him," Leslie mused. "But as Christian said earlier at home, the biggest problem is going to be convincing her that he's only looking out for number one."

Roarke nodded. "Indeed. I've asked all five of them—Ms. Latignon and her children, and Monsieur LeNoir—to come here at ten, so that I can present them with our findings and clear up this mystery."

"Just in time for them to have a good Christmas after all, let's hope," said Christian.

Once the full party had been assembled in Roarke's study—with Christian at the computer, Leslie behind the desk with Roarke, Solange and LeNoir each in a chair, and the children clustered on the side of the desk farthest away from LeNoir—Roarke wordlessly displayed the now-empty prescription bottle at LeNoir and Solange. "We found this here in the study yesterday," he said.

"Oh, so that's where it went," Solange exclaimed.

"We appreciate your finding it, _m'sieur_ Roarke," LeNoir said, reaching out for it.

Roarke drew his hand back. "Not so quickly, Monsieur LeNoir. You may notice that the bottle is empty—and for a very good reason."

"How can you have a good reason for disposing of Solange's medication?" snapped LeNoir. "This could produce very serious problems for her."

"More serious than those created by the fact that she has been taking amakarna in her medication?" Roarke returned without missing a beat.

LeNoir stared at him for a few seconds too long before asking, "Where do you get that idea? You have no proof!"

"I have all the proof I need," Roarke said. "I had the tablets analyzed by our island pharmacist, and I am told—in a written report of which several copies exist—that they are composed of the minimal effective dosage of actual painkiller, several inert ingredients, and sixty percent amakarna. On this island, that is more than enough to have you locked up for a significant period."

Solange had been gaping back and forth between Roarke and LeNoir, and now she gave the latter a stunned, betrayed look. "Georges…?"

"_Mon coeur_…I never meant…" he began weakly.

"Oh yes you did," Patrick broke in, glaring at him. "We knew you were a monster from the start, only you had _Maman_ so drugged up that she wouldn't listen to us."

"Mr. Roarke, will you please explain to me what's going on?" Solange asked. "I know what amakarna can do—I read enough about it after the news about Leslie's wedding to Prince Christian came out—but I've never seen the stuff, or I might have suspected something long before this. How can you accuse Georges of substituting amakarna for my pain medication?"

"He is a member of the family that owned a pharmaceuticals concern in France until a few months ago," Roarke told her and explained what had happened to the company and the deductive reasoning and research that had led him to this conclusion. "There are no barons in his family; whatever money he claimed to have had when you and he first met would have come from the company, not a fictitious rich uncle. Of course," he went on, glancing at a sickly-looking LeNoir, "after a certain time the money would have begun to run out, and he would have needed more."

"So," Leslie put in, "he dipped into the stock of amakarna-laced medicines that had been left over after the company shutdown, switched it for your original painkiller and got you so addled on the stuff that you never bothered questioning him."

"I never meant to harm her!" LeNoir shouted.

"Maybe you didn't," Leslie retorted, "but it seems pretty clear to me that you didn't take as much care as you think you did. Amakarna is lethal to most people. The only reason you don't have a murder charge over your head is that there's a small percentage of people who can tolerate it, and Father suspects Solange is one of them. You got undeservedly lucky on that score. Once you got Solange confused enough with that stuff, you obviously felt free to start helping yourself to the Latignons' money."

"That's why you wanted me to sell the house," Solange said, looking betrayed. "My accounts must have been running low and you wanted more money."

"Not to mention stealing from our trust funds!" Patrick added heatedly.

With all the censorious, accusing eyes on him, LeNoir cracked. "I needed capital to reopen my family's company!" he cried, eyes darting from one to another in fruitless appeal. "We have been desperate ever since the government shut us down. But no one has been willing to help us, and I had to do something. Meeting Solange in the office of her doctor—a good friend of mine—was a perfect opportunity." He stared pleadingly at Solange. "Another few weeks, _mon coeur_, and the company would have been able to go back into operation and pay all the necessary fees and other expenses to erase the court trouble. When the company was producing again, I would have restored all the money I took."

"Promises, promises," Patrick sneered. "If you could stoop low enough to drug _Maman_ and sneak behind her back instead of simply asking her, you'd certainly throw out a bone like that and then renege on it when we agreed."

"And not just that," Solange added, her eyes frosting over, "but to steal from my children as well! A person who steals from children would do any cruel thing he could think of and never have a speck of remorse over it."

"Solange, please," LeNoir begged.

But she shook her head. "You owe us a lot of money, I'm sure of that. My son is going to help me find out exactly how much. And you're going to pay back every last cent of every last euro you stole from us. If you try to welch out on that, I'll bring this whole scheme of yours to the attention of the authorities, and if they're skeptical, all I have to do is tell them to contact Mr. Roarke. That's all they'll need to make sure you atone for what you've done. The money my husband left us was meant for us to live on, Georges, not for you to drain away so you could reopen a company that you probably meant to use to illegally import that spice all over again. Those trust funds are for my children to get a proper start in life, not for you to go out and buy fancy things for yourself."

"What about the way he kept looking at me, _Maman?"_ Antoinette asked, and Solange turned to stare at her. "He always looked as if he wanted to undress me…"

"Sometimes me too," said Mireille. "Or else he hit me."

"Don't you dare…" LeNoir began.

"Why shouldn't we?" Antoinette shot out at him. "You did it, you can't deny it, and Patrick saw it, so we have witnesses. If we get to take you to court, I'll make sure everyone knows you wouldn't have minded raping underage girls."

LeNoir's face grew red. "How dare you accuse me! Do you believe them, Solange?"

"Yes, I do," Solange said flatly. "I can't believe I got so suckered in." She gave Roarke a defeated look, then stared disgustedly at LeNoir. "Except for your repayments to us, I never want to see nor hear from you again. You took advantage of my injury and my worry and my children, and you had no conscience about it. Get out of my sight, Georges."

"You will have to prove I took any money before you can act," LeNoir taunted and bolted from his chair, rushing out the door.

"You have to stop him!" Antoinette cried.

Roarke chuckled. "He is being stopped as we speak," he assured her. "I have police constables ringing the house, so he won't get very far at all. They will hold him until the departure of the next charter, at which time he will be deported to France and turned over to the authorities there. I notified them late last evening, and they will be awaiting him at Orly Airport. When you return to Paris, Ms. Latignon, you and the children can press charges and arrange for his repayment of the money he took from you."

"What made you trust a guy like that in the first place, Solange?" Leslie asked.

Solange sighed deeply. "My injury," she said. "After I fractured my leg the second time and had the door slammed permanently on my dance career, I started to worry about money and couldn't seem to stop. Even after Patrick began to oversee Tattoo's art gallery the next month, I couldn't stop worrying. He kept telling me it was doing well, but I always had the rising cost of living on my mind. I started to wish Tattoo were back, and I used to put myself to sleep each night by lying in bed in the dark and talking to him, telling him everything that was on my mind, as if he could somehow hear me. I needed someone badly, I thought…maybe too badly. I let myself begin to wallow in my loneliness and my worry, and Georges took advantage." She closed her eyes and shook her head at herself. "What a fool I was."

"You certainly wouldn't be the first, nor the last, person such a thing has happened to," Roarke said sympathetically. "What worked in your favor was the fact that your children were very worried for you. While they neglected to tell us a few pertinent details—" he cast an exaggeratedly reproving glance at Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille, all of whom went scarlet and hung their heads, making him and Leslie chuckle softly— "they gave us enough incentive to investigate the problem. And while they were here, they had a chance to make a connection with their father's memory."

Solange smiled a little at that. "Maybe I should do that myself," she said softly. "It seems only fair that I do, especially since you helped us yet again. I remember all the stories Tattoo told me and the children about you and how you helped him get a decent start in life when he was very young and had no one to turn to. You helped him then, you helped us when he died by agreeing to his wishes that this island be his final resting place, and now you've helped us again by exposing a chiseler."

"Ms. Latignon, Tattoo was a very dear friend, one of an extreme few I've been that close to in my lifetime," Roarke said gently. "I was always grateful for his companionship in what might otherwise have been a surprisingly lonely existence. And it was Tattoo who helped Leslie and me, when she first came here and we were still learning to know each other. Had it not been for Tattoo, it's quite possible that Leslie wouldn't regard me as the father she should have had in her biological parent; and I would not have grown so fond of the young lady as to adopt her. Tattoo taught us both certain fundamental lessons, in his own unique and subtle way. How could I do any less than help his family in their time of need?" He smiled at them. "Why don't you remain here on the island throughout the New Year's celebration? All your expenses will be on the house, and you'll have the run of the island attractions. And, as you mentioned, Ms. Latignon, you'll have an opportunity to make a new connection with Tattoo's memory."

Solange smiled a bit tremulously and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Roarke, from all of us." She turned to her offspring. "You can stop feeling guilty, you three. I think Mr. Roarke was just teasing you a minute ago. Although…Patrick, I think you, and you alone, should be in charge of rewrapping your father's paintings that you shipped here and sending them home, so that we can put them back on our walls where they belong."

"I don't mind that a bit, _Maman,"_ Patrick assured her, grinning. "I'll be glad to."


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- December 25, 2004

Though Christian and Leslie had had their Christmas tree up for almost three weeks, the triplets never failed to be fascinated by the lights, the ornaments and the sparkling silver tinsel garland that spiraled around the tree. Naturally, they had to be fed first; but once that was accomplished and Christian and Leslie brought their little ones downstairs, the babies were mesmerized all over again and sat on the floor near the mound of presents, staring with wide eyes at all the lights and the glittering decorations. Christian had turned on the tree lights on his way into the room, and on this quiet, sunny Christmas morning it looked particularly pretty.

Christian found his digital camera and took a photograph of the babies in front of the tree; then he set the camera out of the triplets' reach and found a gift for Leslie in the pile. _"God Jula,_ my precious Leslie Rose," he said softly, handing it to her and kissing her.

She followed suit with something she'd gotten for him, and they were still admiring their little treasures when one of the triplets let out a delighted squeal. Both parents looked up and saw that Susanna had grabbed the corner of a large rectangular package and was trying with all her strength to drag it toward her. They burst out laughing, kissed each other, and then settled onto the floor with their children, sharing the babies' first Christmas.

At the main house they exchanged presents with Roarke, gave Mariki a gift as they had done every year since their marriage, and a little later welcomed the Latignon family into the study. More presents were traded and exclaimed over; Solange fell in love with the triplets, and the adults had a chance to chat for a while, watching Patrick, Antoinette and Mireille playing with Susanna, Karina and Tobias.

Just before lunch, the ten of them as a group made their way to the cemetery where Tattoo was buried, gathering in a semicircle around his grave, telling a few quiet Christmas stories involving him. Quietly Roarke and Solange each placed a potted poinsettia atop the grave, and everyone stood in silence to remember Tattoo or honor him, each in his own way. Christian silently wrapped an arm around Leslie and she nestled against him, wondering with a tiny smile if perhaps Tattoo could see them from wherever he might be. Each one then wished the departed Tattoo a merry Christmas, one by one, and slowly left the cemetery, their mood reflective.

Back at the main house, Mariki and her staff presented them all with a massive holiday dinner, with foods not just from the island but also from France and Lilla Jordsö. The collective mood lightened, and the conversation was happy and filled with laughter. The triplets, seated in high chairs near their parents, were as much a part of the celebration as the others, and their giggles could be frequently heard along with everyone else's.

Mariki had come back out with the cart and was clearing away dishes when Roarke tapped his wine glass and got everyone's attention. Even Mariki paused to listen. "I don't think," Roarke observed, "that I have had such a well-attended Christmas in a great many years, and I find it invigorating and truly enjoyable. Believe me, the presence of all of you makes for a holiday I won't soon forget.

"I know we all wish that Tattoo could have been here with us. He would have delighted in this gathering, would have found great joy in his family and undoubtedly in the triplets. And there's no question but that he would have been very generous in his gift-giving, no matter the protests that he was being too kind.

"He has been gone from us for almost ten years, but he touched many, many lives, most of all the lives of nearly all of us at this table. I am certain that wherever he is now, he is looking down on us and smiling. Perhaps he wishes he could be with us, as much as we wish it. But I am assured that he knows we're all here, together." Roarke raised his glass, and everyone else followed suit; Mariki looked on with a broad smile.

"To Tattoo," Roarke said softly. "May we always remember him."

"To Tattoo," ten voices chorused, and a toast was drunk. And only Roarke was aware of the whisper of air that sifted by them, bearing the merest trace of a cheerful chuckle in a familiar, gravelly voice.

* * *

**A/N:** _Reference was made to the following episodes:_

_In chapter 2: "Marathon: Battle of the Sexes / Baby", original airdate October 5, 1979 (second story arc)_

_In chapter 3: "Tattoo: the Love God / Magnolia Blossoms", original airdate September 21, 1979 (first story arc)_

_The full story has its base in the February 28, 1981, episode "Portrait of Solange / Also-Rans" (first story arc), with Elissa Leeds as Solange Latignon. Thanks again to everyone for all the terrific reviews!_


End file.
